DUKE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Treasure 'Room 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/lettersofcharlesOOIamb 
 
THE 
 
 ■ 
 
 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB 
 
 1825-1834 
 VOLUME V 
 
1$> 
 
 

 
 Ml 
 
TV.-fi. 
 
 
 v. b 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by 
 The Bibliophile Societt 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 4 7 9 1/S 
 
LETTER CCCCLXI 
 
 CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 September 30, 1825. 
 
 Dear H., — I came home in a week from 
 Enfield, worse than I went. My sufferings have 
 been intense, but are abating. I begin to know 
 what a little sleep is. My sister has sunk under 
 her anxieties about me. She is laid up, deprived 
 of reason for many weeks to come, I fear. She 
 is in the same house, but we do not meet. It 
 makes both worse. I can just hobble down as 
 far as the " Angel " once a day ; further kills 
 me. When I can stretch to Copenh [agen] Street 
 I will. If you come this way any morning I can 
 only just shake you by the hand. This gloomy 
 house does not admit of making my friends wel- 
 come. You have come off triumphant with 
 Bartholomew Fair. Yours (writ with difficulty), 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXII. — TO WILLIAM AYRTON 
 
 October, 1825. 
 
 Dear Ayrton, — I am not nor can be forget- 
 ful of you. All this summer almost I have been 
 ill. I have been laid up (the second nervous 
 attack) now six weeks. I have only known what 
 
 9 
 
sleep is, and that imperfect, for a week past. I 
 have a medical attendant on me daily, and am 
 brought low, though recovering. In the midst of 
 my sufferings Mary was overcome with anxiety 
 and nursing, and is ill of her old complaint which 
 will last for many weeks to come ; she is with 
 me in the house. I have neither place at present 
 to receive old friends, but for a minute's chat 
 or so, nor strength for some time I fear to 
 stretch to them. Mr. Burney, who is come 
 home, will corroborate this. But I hope again 
 to see you and Mrs. A., for whose restoration 
 I heartily pray. No longer reproach me, who 
 never was but yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXIII.— TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 October 5, 1825. 
 
 Dear A., — Have received your drafts. We 
 will talk that over Sunday morning. I am strong- 
 ish, but have not good nights, and cannot settle 
 my inside. 
 
 Farewell till Sunday. 
 
 I have no possible use for the first draft, so 
 shall keep them as above. 
 
 Yours truly, C. L. 
 
 I only trouble you now because, if the 
 drafts had miscarried, any one might have 
 cash'd 'em. Remember at home. Ludlow is 
 charming. 
 
 10 
 
CCCCLXIV. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 October 18, 1825. 
 
 Dear H., — The first bit of writing I have 
 done these many weeks. The quotations from 
 both the Colliers are correct, I assure you. 
 
 C. Lamb, getting well, but weak 
 
 CCCCLXV. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 October 24, 1825. 
 
 Who is your compositor ? I cannot praise 
 enough the beauty and accuracy of the Garrick 
 Play types. That of Zelidaura and Felisbravo, 
 two or three numbers back, was really a poser. 
 He must be no ordinary person who got through 
 it (so quaint) without a slip. Not one in 10,000 
 would have done it. Moxon (of the great House 
 of Longman, Shortman & Co.) is a little fretful 
 that youhave extracted a bit (only) from his friend 
 Cole's book about Hervey and Weston Favell. 
 C. is gaping for it, and has sent M. a very curi- 
 ous old man's will for your book, which M. only 
 keeps till you gratify him by a tiny notice : any- 
 thing about the meditator among ye Tombs. 
 
 CCCCLXVI. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 October 24, 1825. 
 
 I send a scrap. Is it worth postage ? My friends 
 are fairly surprised that you should set me down 
 so unequivocally for an ass, as you have done. 
 
 11 
 
Here he is 
 
 what follows ? 
 
 The Ass 
 
 Call you this friendship ? Mercy ! What a dose 
 
 you have sent me of Burney ! — a perfect opening 
 
 (a pun here is intended) draught. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [This is written on the back of the MS. " In re Squirrels " 
 for Hone's Every-Day Book. Lamb's previous contribution 
 had been The Ass which Hone had introduced with a few words. 
 — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 CCCCLXVII. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 December 5, 1825. 
 
 Dear A., — You will be glad to hear that we 
 are at home to visitors ; not too many or noisy. 
 Some fine day shortly Mary will surprise Mrs. 
 Allsop. The weather is not seasonable for formal 
 engagements. Yours most ever, C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXVIII. — TO THOMAS MANNING 
 
 December 10, 1825. 
 
 My dear M., — We have had sad ups and 
 downs since you saw us, but are at present in 
 untroubled waters, though not by them, for our 
 old New River has taken a jaundice of the muds 
 and rains, and looks as yellow as Miss 
 
 Your red trunk (not hose, tho' a flame-coloured 
 pair was once esteem' d a luxury) is safe deposited 
 
 12 
 
at the Peacock, who by the by is worth your 
 seeing. She has had her tail brush' d up, and 
 looks as pert as A-goose with a hundred eyes in 
 My-thology : I don't know what yours says of it. 
 Your gown will be at the Bell, Totteridge, by 
 the Telegraph on Monday ; time enough, I hope, 
 to go out to the curate's to an early tea in it. 
 We have a corner at double dumbee for you, 
 whenever you are dispos'd to change your Inn. 
 Believe us yours as ever, 
 
 Ch. and Mary Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXIX. — TO CHARLES OLLIER 
 
 December, 1825. 
 
 Dear O., — I leave it entirely to Mr. Colburn ; 
 but if not too late, I think the Proverbs had 
 better have L. sign'd to them and reserve Elia 
 for Essays more Eliacal. May I trouble you to 
 send my Magazine, not to Norris, but H. C. 
 Robinson, Esq., King's Bench Walks, instead. 
 Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 My friend Hood, a prime genius and hearty 
 fellow, brings this. 
 
 CCCCLXX.— TO CHARLES OLLIER 
 
 Early, 1826. 
 
 Dear Oilier, — I send you two more proverbs, 
 which will be the last of this batch, unless I send 
 
 *3 
 
you one more by the post on Thursday ; none 
 will come after that day ; so do not leave any 
 open room in that case. Hood sups with me 
 to-night. Can you come and eat grouse ? *T is 
 not often I offer at delicacies. 
 
 Yours most kindly, C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXXI. — TO CHARLES OLLIER 
 
 January, 1826. 
 
 Dear O., — We lamented your absence last 
 night. The grouse were piquant, the backs in- 
 comparable. You must come in to cold mutton 
 and oysters some evening. Name your evening ; 
 though I have qualms at the distance. Do you 
 never leave early ? My head is very queerish, 
 and indisposed for much company ; but we will 
 get Hood, that half Hogarth, to meet you. The 
 scrap I send should come in after the Rising with 
 the Lark. 
 
 Colburn, I take it, pays postages. 
 
 Yours truly 
 
 CCCCLXXII. — TO CHARLES OLLIER 
 
 January 25, 1826. 
 
 Dear O., — I send you eight more jests, with 
 the terms which my friend asks, which you will 
 be so kind as to get an answer to from Mr. Col- 
 burn, that I may tell him whether to go on with 
 them. You will see his short note to me at the 
 
end, and tear it off. It is not for me to judge, but, 
 considering the scarceness of the materials, what 
 he asks is, I think, mighty reasonable. Do not 
 let him be even known as a friend of mine. You see 
 what he says about five going in first as a taste, 
 but these will make thirteen in all. Tell me by 
 what time he need send more ; I suppose not 
 for some time (if you do not bring them out this 
 month). 
 
 Keep a place for me till the middle of the 
 month, for I cannot hit on anything yet. I 
 mean nothing by my crotchets but extreme 
 difficulty in writing. But I will go on as long 
 as I can. C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXXIII. — TO MR. HUDSON 
 
 February i, 1826. 
 
 Sir, — I was requested by Mr. Godwin to en- 
 quire about a nurse that you want for a lady who 
 requires constraint. The one I know does not go 
 out now ; but at Whitmore House, Mr. War- 
 burton's, Hoxton (to which she belongs), I dare 
 say you may be very properly provided. The terms 
 are eight-and-twenty shillings a week, with her 
 board ; she finding her beer and washing : which 
 is less expensive than for a female patient to be 
 taken into a house of that description with any 
 tolerable accommodation. 
 
 I am, Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 l 5 
 
CCCCLXXIV. — TO CHARLES OLLIER 
 
 February 4, 1826. 
 
 Dear O., — I send a proverb, and a common 
 saying, which is all I shall have against next 
 month. What may I say of terms to my Chinese 
 friend ? He will be on the fret, thinking he has 
 ask'd more than Mr. C. will give, and he won't 
 know whether to go on translating. Be explicit. 
 Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 Don't lose these : I keep no copies. Re- 
 member I don't want to palm a friend upon the 
 Magazine. I am quite content with my single 
 reception in it. 
 
 CCCCLXXV. — TO CHARLES OLLIER 
 
 1826. 
 
 Dear O., — We dine at four on Monday. As 
 I expect the authoress to tea, pray have a bit of 
 opinion to give on her manuscript, or she will 
 haunt me. 
 
 Could you let me have the last magazine I 
 wrote in, and which I had not about July or 
 August last, containing the Essay on Sulkiness, 
 being the last of the Popular Fallacies. 
 
 Till I see you. A-Dieu. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 16 
 
CCCCLXXVI. — TO WILLIAM HAZLITT 
 
 1826. 
 
 Dear H., — Lest you should come to-morrow, 
 I write to say that Mary is ill again. The last 
 thing she read was the Thursday Nights, which 
 seem'd to give her unmixed delight, and she 
 was sorry for what she said to you that night. 
 The Article is a treasure to us for ever. Stoddart 
 sent over the magazine to know if it were yours, 
 and says it is better than Hogarth's Mod. Midn. 
 Conversation, with several other most kind men- 
 tions of it: he signs his note, An old Mitre 
 Courtian. C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXXVII. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 February 7, 1826. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I got your book not more than 
 five days ago, so am not so negligent as I must 
 have appeared to you with a fortnight's sin upon 
 my shoulders. I tell you with sincerity that I 
 think you have completely succeeded in what 
 you intended to do. What is poetry may be 
 disputed. These are poetry to me at least. They 
 are concise, pithy, and moving. Uniform as they 
 are, and unhistorify'd, I read them thro' at two 
 sittings without one sensation approaching to 
 tedium. I do not know that among your many 
 kind presents of this nature this is not my favour- 
 ite volume. The language is never lax, and there 
 
 17 
 
is a unity of design and feeling : you wrote them 
 with love — to avoid the cox-combical phrase 
 con amore. I am particularly pleased with the 
 Spiritual Law, pages 34-5. It reminded me of 
 Quarles, and Holy Mr. Herbert, as Izaak Walton 
 calls him : the two best, if not only, of our de- 
 votional poets, tho' some prefer Watts, and some 
 To?n Moore. 
 
 I am far from well or in my right spirits, and 
 shudder at pen and ink work. I poke out a 
 monthly crudity for Colburn in his magazine, 
 which I call Popular Fallacies, and periodically 
 crush a proverb or two, setting up my folly 
 against the wisdom of nations. Do you see the 
 New Monthly ? 
 
 One word I must object to in your little 
 book, and it recurs more than once — fadeless is 
 no genuine compound ; loveless is, because love 
 is a noun as well as verb, but what is a fade? — 
 and I do not quite like whipping the Greek 
 drama upon the back of "Genesis," page 8. I 
 do not like praise handed in by disparagement ; 
 as I objected to a side censure on Byron, &c, in 
 the lines on Bloomfield : with these poor cavils 
 excepted, your verses are without a flaw. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 My kind remembrances to your daughter and 
 A. K. always. 
 
 18 
 
CCCCLXXVIII. — TO CHARLES OLLIER 
 
 March 16, 1826. 
 
 Dear Oilier, — If not too late, pray omit the 
 last paragraph in Actors' Religion, which is 
 clumsy. It will then end with the word Mug- 
 gletonian. I shall not often trouble you in this 
 manner, but I am suspicious of this article as 
 lame. C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXXIX. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 March 20, 1826. 
 
 Dear B. B., — You may know my letters by 
 the paper and the folding. For the former, I 
 live on scraps obtained in charity from an old 
 friend whose stationery is a permanent perquisite ; 
 for folding, I shall do it neatly when I learn 
 to tye my neckcloths. I surprise most of my 
 friends by writing to them on ruled paper, 
 as if I had not got past pothooks and hangers. 
 Sealing wax, I have none on my establishment. 
 Wafers of the coarsest bran supply its place. 
 When my Epistles come to be weighed with 
 Pliny's, however superior to the Roman in deli- 
 cate irony, judicious reflexions, &c, his gilt post 
 will bribe over the judges to him. 
 
 All the time I was at the East India House 
 I never mended a pen; I now cut 'em to the 
 stumps, marring rather than mending the primi- 
 tive goose quill. I cannot bear to pay for articles 
 
 ?9 
 
I used to get for nothing. When Adam laid out 
 his first penny upon nonpareils at some stall in 
 Mesopotamos, I think it went hard with him, 
 reflecting upon his old goodly orchard, where 
 he had so many for nothing. When I write to 
 a great man, at the Court end, he opens with 
 surprise upon a naked note, such as Whitechapel 
 people interchange, with no sweet degrees of 
 envelope : I never inclosed one bit of paper in 
 another, nor understand the rationale of it. 
 Once only I seal'd with borrow'd wax, to set 
 Walter Scott a-wondering, sign'd with the im- 
 perial quarter' d arms of England, which my 
 friend Field gives in compliment to his descent 
 in the female line from O. Cromwell. It must 
 have set his antiquarian curiosity upon watering. 
 To your questions upon the currency, I refer 
 you to Mr. Robinson's last speech, where, if you 
 can find a solution, I cannot. I think this, tho', 
 the best ministry we ever stumbled upon. Gin 
 reduced four shillings in the gallon, wine two 
 shillings in the quart. This comes home to 
 men's minds and bosoms. My tirade against 
 visitors was not meant particularly at you or 
 A. K. I scarce know what I meant, for I do not 
 just now feel the grievance. I wanted to make 
 an article. So in another thing I talk'd of some- 
 body's insipid wife, without a correspondent object 
 in my head : and a good lady, a friend's wife, 
 whom I really love (don't startle, I mean in a 
 licit way) has looked shyly on me ever since. 
 
 20 
 
The blunders of personal application are ludi- 
 crous. I send out a character every now and 
 then, on purpose to exercise the ingenuity of my 
 friends. Popular Fallacies will go on ; that word 
 " concluded "is an erratum, I suppose, for con- 
 tinued. I do not know how it got stuff' d in 
 there. A little thing without name will also be 
 printed on the Religion of the Actors, but it is out 
 of your way, so I recommend you, with true 
 author's hypocrisy, to skip it. We are about to 
 sit down to roast beef, at which we could wish 
 A. K., B. B., and B. B.'s pleasant daughter to 
 be humble partakers. So much for my hint at 
 visitors, which was scarcely calculated for drop- 
 pers in from Woodbridge. The sky does not 
 drop such larks every day. 
 
 My very kindest wishes to you all three, with 
 my sister's best love. C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXXX. — TO S. T. COLERIDGE 
 
 March 22, 1826. 
 
 Dear C, — We will with great pleasure be 
 with you on Thursday in the next week early. 
 Your finding out my style in your nephew's pleas- 
 ant book is surprising to me. I want eyes to 
 descry it. You are a little too hard upon his 
 morality, though I confess he has more of Sterne 
 about him than of Sternhold. But he saddens 
 into excellent sense before the conclusion. Your 
 query shall be submitted to Miss Kelly, though 
 
 21 
 
it is obvious that the pantomime, when done, 
 will be more easy to decide upon than in pro- 
 posal. I say, do it by all means. 
 
 I have Decker's play by me, if you can filch 
 anything out of it. Miss Gray, with her kitten 
 eyes, is an actress, though she shows it not at all, 
 and pupil to the former, whose gestures she 
 mimics in comedy to the disparagement of her 
 own natural manner, which is agreeable. It is 
 funny to see her bridling up her neck, which is 
 native to F. K. ; but there is no setting another's 
 manners upon one's shoulders any more than their 
 head. I am glad you esteem Manning, though 
 you see but his husk or shrine. He discloses 
 not, save to select worshippers, and will leave the 
 world without any one hardly but me knowing 
 how stupendous a creature he is. I am perfect- 
 ing myself in the Ode to Eton College against 
 Thursday, that I may not appear unclassic. I 
 have just discovered that it is much better than 
 the Elegy. In haste, C. L. 
 
 P. S. — I do not know what to say to your 
 latest theory about Nero being the Messiah, 
 though by all accounts he was a 'nointed one. 
 
 CCCCLXXXI. — TO H. F. CARY 
 
 April 3, 1826. 
 
 Dear Sir, — It is whispered me that you will 
 not be unwilling to look into our doleful hermit- 
 
 22 
 
age. Without more preface, you will gladden 
 our cell by accompanying our old chums of the 
 London, Darley and Allan Cunningham, to En- 
 field on Wednesday. You shall have hermit's fare, 
 with talk as seraphical as the novelty of the di- 
 vine life will permit, with an innocent retrospect 
 to the world which we have left, when I will 
 thank you for your hospitable offer at Chiswick, 
 and with plain hermit reasons evince the ne- 
 cessity of abiding here. 
 
 Without hearing from you, then, you shall 
 give us leave to expect you. I have long had it 
 on my conscience to invite you, but spirits have 
 been low ; and I am indebted to chance for this 
 awkward but most sincere invitation. 
 
 Yours, with best love to Mrs. Cary, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 Darley knows all about the coaches. Oh, for 
 a Museum in the wilderness! 
 
 CCCCLXXXII. — TO CHARLES OLLIER 
 
 April, 1826. 
 
 Dear O., — Will you let the fair bearer have 
 a magazine for me for this month (April) — 
 and can you let me have for my Chinese friend 
 one of last month (March) and of this (in case 
 only that something of his is inserted) ? Is such 
 a privilege conceded to occasional contributors 
 of having the numbers they appear in ? I do not 
 
 2 3 
 
want it, if not usual, . . . and send a line if he 
 may go on with the jests. Yours, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 Write, if but a line. 
 
 i Mag. for me, Apr. 
 
 i for Chinaman, March. 
 
 i Do. (if jests are in) Apr. 
 
 3 books, or at least i for me. If you are out, 
 I '11 call to-morrow. 
 
 CCCCLXXXIII. — TO VINCENT NOVELLO 
 
 [p. m. May 9, 1826.] 
 
 Dear N., — You will not expect us to-morrow, 
 I am sure, while these damn'd Northeasters con- 
 tinue. We must wait the Zephyrs' pleasures. By 
 the bye, I was at Highgate on Wensday, the only 
 one of the Party. Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly 
 writes, has set in with its usual severity. 
 Kind remembrances to Mrs. Novello, &c. 
 
 CCCCLXXXIV. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 May 16, 1826. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I have had no spirits lately to 
 begin a letter to you, though I am under obliga- 
 tions to you (how many!) for your neat little 
 poem. 'Tis just what it professes to be, a simple 
 
 24 
 
tribute in chaste verse, serious and sincere. I do 
 not know how Friends will relish it, but we out- 
 lyers, Honorary Friends, like it very well. I have 
 had my head and ears stufFd up with the east 
 winds. A continual ringing in my brain of bells 
 jangled, or the spheres touch'd by some raw 
 angel. It is not George Third trying the hun- 
 dredth psalm ? I get my music for nothing. But 
 the weather seems to be softening, and will thaw 
 my stunnings. Coleridge writing to me a week 
 or two since begins his note — " Summer has set 
 in with its usual severity." A cold summer is all 
 I know of disagreeable in cold. I do not mind 
 the utmost rigour of real winter, but these smil- 
 ing hypocrites of Mays wither me to death. My 
 head has been a ringing chaos, like the day the 
 winds were made, before they submitted to the 
 discipline of a weathercock, before the quarters 
 were made. 
 
 In the street, with the blended noises of life 
 about me, I hear, and my head is lightened, but 
 in a room the hubbub comes back, and I am 
 deaf as a sinner. Did I tell you of a pleasant 
 sketch Hood has done, which he calls Very 
 Deaf Indeed? It is of a good-natur'd stupid- 
 looking old gentleman, whom a footpad has 
 stopt, but for his extreme deafness cannot make 
 him understand what he wants ; the unconscious 
 old gentleman is extending his ear-trumpet very 
 complacently, and the fellow is firing a pistol 
 into it to make him hear, but the ball will 
 
 25 
 
pierce his skull sooner than the report reach his 
 sensorium. I chuse a very little bit of paper, for 
 my ear hisses when I bend down to write. I 
 can hardly read a book, for I miss that small 
 soft voice which the idea of articulated words 
 raises (almost imperceptibly to you) in a silent 
 reader. I seem too deaf to see what I read. But 
 with a touch or two of returning Zephyr my 
 head will melt. What lyes you Poets tell about 
 the May ! It is the most ungenial part of the 
 year, cold crocuses, cold primroses, you take 
 your blossoms in ice, a painted sun, — 
 
 Unmeaning joy around appears, 
 And Nature smiles as if she sneers. 
 
 It is ill with me when I begin to look which 
 way the wind sits. Ten years ago I literally did 
 not know the point from the broad end of the 
 vane, which it was that indicated the quarter. 
 I hope these ill winds have blow'd over you, as 
 they do thro' me. Kindest remembrances to 
 you and yours. C. L. 
 
 CCCCLXXXV. — TO S. T. COLERIDGE 
 
 June I, 1826. 
 
 Dear Coleridge, — If I know myself, nobody 
 more detests the display of personal vanity which 
 is implied in the act of sitting for one's picture 
 than myself. But the fact is, that the likeness 
 which accompanies this letter was stolen from 
 my person at one of my unguarded moments by 
 
 26 
 
some too partial artist, and my friends are pleased 
 to think that he has not much nattered me. 
 Whatever its merits may be, you, who have so 
 great an interest in the original, will have a sat- 
 isfaction in tracing the features of one that has 
 so long esteemed you. There are times when in 
 a friend's absence these graphic representations 
 of him almost seem to bring back the man him- 
 self. The painter, whoever he was, seems to 
 have taken me in one of those disengaged mo- 
 ments, if I may so term them, when the native 
 character is so much more honestly displayed 
 than can be possible in the restraints of an 
 enforced sitting attitude. Perhaps it rather de- 
 scribes me as a thinking man than a man in the 
 act of thought. Whatever its pretensions, I know 
 it will be dear to you, towards whom I should 
 wish my thoughts to flow in a sort of an undress 
 rather than in the more studied graces of diction. 
 I am, dear Coleridge, yours sincerely, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCLXXXVI. — TO LOUISA HOLCROFT 
 
 Enfield, June 17, 1826. 
 
 Dear Louisa, — I think I know the house 
 you have in view. It is a capital old manor 
 house lately in possession of Lord Cadogan. But 
 whether it be that or another, we shall have in 
 the meantime a small room and bed to let, 
 pretty cheap, only two smiles a week, and find 
 
 27 
 
your own washing. If you are not already on 
 the road, set out from the Bell, Holborn, at 
 half-past four, and ask to be set down at Mr. 
 Lamb's on the Chase. Mary joins in the hope 
 of seeing you very speedily, and in love to you 
 all. Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 Mary has left off writing letters ; I do all. 
 
 CCCCLXXXVII. — TO JOHN B. DIBDIN 
 
 June 30, 1826. 
 
 Dear D., — My first impulse upon opening 
 your letter was pleasure at seeing your old neat 
 hand, nine parts gentlemanly, with a modest dash 
 of the clerical : my second a thought, natural 
 enough this hot weather, Am I to answer all 
 this? why 'tis as long as those to the Ephesians 
 and Galatians put together — I have counted the 
 words for curiosity. But then Paul has nothing 
 like the fun which is ebullient all over yours. 
 I don't remember a good thing (good like yours) 
 from the 1st Romans to the last of the Hebrews. 
 I remember but one pun in all the Evangely, 
 and that was made by his and our Master : Thou 
 art Peter (that is Doctor Rock) and upon this 
 rock will I build, &c. ; which sanctifies punning 
 with me against all gainsayers. I never knew an 
 enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man. 
 
 Your fair critic in the coach reminds me of 
 a Scotchman who assured me that he did not see 
 
 28 
 
much in Shakspeare. I replied, I dare say not. 
 He felt the equivoke, look'd awkward, and red- 
 dish, but soon return' d to the attack, by saying 
 that he thought Burns was as good as Shakspeare: 
 I said that I had no doubt he was — to a Scotch- 
 man. We exchang'd no more words that day. 
 Your account of the fierce faces in the Hanging, 
 with the presumed interlocution of the eagle and 
 the tiger, amused us greatly. You cannot be so 
 very bad, while you can pick mirth off from rot- 
 ten walls. But let me hear you have escaped out 
 of your oven. May the Form of the Fourth 
 Person who clapt invisible wet blankets about 
 the shoulders of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed- 
 nego, be with you in the fiery trial. But get out 
 of the frying-pan. Your business, I take it, is 
 bathing, not baking. 
 
 Let me hear that you have clamber'd up to 
 Lover's Seat ; it is as fine in that neighbourhood 
 as Juan Fernandez, as lonely too, when the fish- 
 ing-boats are not out ; I have sat for hours, star- 
 ing upon a shipless sea. The salt sea is never so 
 grand as when it is left to itself. One cockboat 
 spoils it. A sea-mew or two improves it. And 
 go to the little church, which is a very protestant 
 Loretto, and seems dropt by some angel for the 
 use of a hermit, who was at once parishioner 
 and a whole parish. It is not too big. Go in 
 the night, bring it away in your portmanteau, 
 and I will plant it in my garden. It must have 
 been erected in the very infancy of British Chris- 
 
 29 
 
tianity, for the two or three first converts ; yet 
 hath it all the appertenances of a church of the 
 first magnitude; its pulpit, its pews, its baptismal 
 font — a cathedral in a nutshell. Seven people 
 would crowd it like a Caledonian Chapel. The 
 minister that divides the word there, must give 
 lumping pennyworths. It is built to the text 
 of "two or three assembled in my name." It 
 reminds me of the grain of mustard seed. If the 
 glebe land is proportionate, it may yield two 
 potatoes. Tythes out of it could be no more split 
 than a hair. Its first-fruits must be its last, for 
 'twould never produce a couple. It is truly the 
 strait and narrow way, and few there be (of Lon- 
 don visitants) that find it. The still small voice 
 is surely to be found there, if anywhere. A 
 sounding-board is merely there for ceremony. 
 It is secure from earthquakes, not more from 
 sanctity than size, for 'twould feel a mountain 
 thrown upon it no more than a taper-worm would. 
 Go and see, but not without your spectacles. 
 
 By the way, there 's a capital farm-house two- 
 thirds of the way to the Lover's Seat, with in- 
 comparable plum cake, ginger-beer, &c. Mary 
 bids me warn you not to read the Anatomy of 
 Melancholy in your present low way. You '11 fancy 
 yourself a pipkin, or a headless bear, as Burton 
 speaks of. You '11 be lost in a maze of remedies 
 for a labyrinth of diseasements, a plethora of cures. 
 Read Fletcher ; above all the Spanish Curate, the 
 Thief, or Little Nightwalker, the Wit Without 
 
 3° 
 
Money, and the Lover s Pilgrimage. Laugh and 
 come home fat. Neither do we think Sir T. 
 Browne quite the thing for you just at present. 
 Fletcher is as light as soda-water. Browne and 
 Burton are too strong potions for an invalid. 
 And don't thumb or dirt the books. Take care 
 of the bindings. Lay a leaf of silver paper under 
 'em, as you read them. And don't smoke to- 
 bacco over 'em, — the leaves will fall in and 
 burn or dirty their namesakes. If you find any 
 dusty atoms of the Indian weed crumbled up in 
 the Beaumont and Fletcher, they are mine. But 
 then, you know, so is the folio also. A pipe and 
 a comedy of Fletcher's the last thing of a night 
 is the best recipe for light dreams and to scatter 
 away nightmares. Probatum est. But do as you 
 like about the former. Only cut the Baker's. 
 You will come home else all crust ; Rankings 
 must chip you before you can appear in his 
 counting-house. 
 
 And my dear Peter Fin, Junr., do contrive to 
 see the sea at least once before you return. You '11 
 be ask'd about it in the Old Jewry. It will 
 appear singular not to have seen it. And rub up 
 your Muse, the family Muse, and send us a 
 rhyme or so. Don't waste your wit upon that 
 damn'd Dry Salter. I never knew but one Dry 
 Salter, who could relish those mellow effusions, 
 and he broke. You knew Tommy Hill, the 
 wettest of dry salters. Dry Salters, what a word 
 for this thirsty weather ! I must drink after it. 
 
 3 1 
 
Here 's to thee, my dear Dibdin, and to our 
 having you again snug and well at Colebrooke. 
 But our nearest hopes are to hear again from 
 you shortly. An epistle only a quarter as agree- 
 able as your last, would be a treat. 
 
 Yours most truly, C. Lamb 
 
 note 
 
 [Dibdin, who was in delicate health, had gone to Hastings 
 to recruit, with a parcel of Lamb's books for company. He 
 seems to have been lodged above the oven at a baker's. This 
 letter contains Lamb's crowning description of Hollingdon 
 Rural Church. — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 CCCCLXXXVIII. — TO JOHN B. DIBDIN 
 
 July 14, 1826. 
 
 Because you boast poetic Grandsire, 
 
 And rhyming kin, both Uncle and Sire, 
 
 Dost think that none but their Descendings 
 
 Can tickle folks with double endings ? 
 
 I had a Dad, that would for half a bet 
 
 Have put down thine thro' half the alphabet. 
 
 Thou, who would be Dan Prior the second, 
 
 For Dan Posterior must be reckon'd. 
 
 In faith, dear Tim, your rhymes are slovenly, 
 
 As a man may say, dough-baked and ovenly ; 
 
 Tedious and long as two long Acres, 
 
 And smell most vilely of the Baker's. 
 
 (I have been cursing every limb o' thee, 
 
 Because I could not hitch in Timothy. 
 
 Jack, Will, Tom, Dicjc 's, a serious evil, 
 
 But Tim, plain Tim's — the very devil.) 
 
 Thou most incorrigible scribbler, 
 
 Right Watering place and cockney dribbler, 
 
 3 2 
 
What child, that barely understands A, 
 
 B, C, would ever dream that Stanza 
 
 Would tinkle into rhyme with " Plan, Sir " ? 
 
 Go, go, you are not worth an answer. 
 
 I had a Sire, that at plain Crambo 
 
 Had hit you o'er the pate a damn'd blow. 
 
 How now ? may I die game, and you die brass, 
 
 But I have stol'n a quip from Hudibras. 
 
 'T was thinking on that fine old Suttler, "j 
 
 That was in faith a second Butler; > 
 
 Had as queer rhymes as he, and subtler. ) 
 
 He would have put you to 't this weather 
 
 For rattling syllables together ; 
 
 Rhym'd you to death, like " rats in Ireland," 
 
 Except that he was born in High'r Land. 
 
 His chimes, not crampt like thine, and rung ill, 
 
 Had made Job split his sides on dunghill. 
 
 There was no limit to his merryings 
 
 At christ'nings, weddings, nay at buryings. 
 
 No undertaker would live near him, 
 
 Those grave practitioners did fear him ; 
 
 Mutes, at his merry mops, turned " vocal," 
 
 And fellows, hired for silence, " spoke all." 
 
 No body could be laid in cavity, 
 
 Long as he lived, with proper gravity. 
 
 His mirth-fraught eye had but to glitter, 
 
 And every mourner round must titter. 
 
 The Parson, prating of Mount Hermon, 
 
 Stood still to laugh, in midst of sermon. 
 
 The final Sexton (smile he must for him) 
 
 Could hardly get to " dust to dust " for him. 
 
 He lost three pall-bearers their livelyhood, 
 
 Only with simp'ring at his lively mood : 
 
 Provided that they fresh and neat came, 
 
 All jests were fish that to his net came. 
 
 He 'd banter Apostolic castings, 
 
 As you jeer fishermen at Hastings. 
 
 When the fly bit, like me, he leapt-o'er-all, 
 
 And stood not much on what was scriptural. 
 
 33 
 
P.S. 
 
 I had forgot, at Small Bohemia 
 
 (Enquire the way of your maid Euphemia) 
 
 Are sojourning, of all good fellows 
 
 The prince and princess, — the Novellas. 
 
 Pray seek 'em out, and give my love to 'em ; 
 
 You '11 find you '11 soon be hand and glove to 'em. 
 
 In prose, Little Bohemia, about a mile from 
 Hastings in the Hollington road, when you can 
 get so far. Dear Dib, I find relief in a word or 
 two of prose. In truth my rhymes come slow. 
 You have "routh of 'em." It gives us pleasure 
 to find you keep your good spirits. Your letter 
 did us good. Pray heaven you are got out at 
 last. Write quickly. 
 
 This letter will introduce you, if 'tis agree- 
 able. Take a donkey. 'Tis Novello the com- 
 poser and his wife, our very good friends. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 CCCCLXXXIX.— TO EDWARD COLERIDGE 
 
 July 19, 1826. 
 
 Dear Sir, — It was not till to-day that I 
 learned the extent of your kindness to my 
 friend's child. I never meant to ask a favour 
 of that magnitude. I begged a civility merely, 
 not an important benefit. But you have done it, 
 and S. T. C, who is about writing to you, will 
 tell you better than I can how I feel upon the 
 occasion. It is an alleviation to any uneasy sense 
 of obligation, which will sometimes be upper- 
 
 34 
 
most, to reflect that you could not have served 
 a more worthy creature than I believe Samuel 
 Bloxam to be. That must be my poor com- 
 fort. 
 
 I remain, your faithful beadsman, in less hon- 
 est phrase, tho' less homely, your obliged humble 
 servant, Ch. Lamb 
 
 CCCCXC— TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 September 6, 1826. 
 
 My dear Wordsworth, — The bearer of this 
 is my young friend Moxon, a young lad with 
 a Yorkshire head, and a heart that would do 
 honour to a more Southern county : no offence 
 to Westmoreland. He is one of Longman's best 
 hands, and can give you the best account of the 
 Trade as 't is now going ; or stopping. For my 
 part, the failure of a bookseller is not the most 
 unpalatable accident of mortality, — 
 
 sad but not saddest 
 The desolation of a hostile city. 
 
 When Constable fell from heaven, and we all 
 
 hoped Baldwin was next, I tuned a slight stave 
 
 to the words in Macbeth (Davenant's) to be sung 
 
 by a chorus of authors, — 
 
 What should we do when Booksellers break? 
 We should rejoyce. 
 
 Moxon is but a tradesman in the bud yet, and 
 retains his virgin honesty ; Esto perpetua, for he 
 is a friendly serviceable fellow, and thinks no- 
 
 35 
 
thing of lugging up a cargo of the newest novels 
 once or twice a week from the Row to Cole- 
 brooke to gratify my sister's passion for the new- 
 est things. He is her Bodley. He is author 
 besides of a poem which for a first attempt is 
 promising. It is made up of common images, 
 and yet contrives to read originally. You see the 
 writer felt all he pours forth, and has not palmed 
 upon you expressions which he did not believe 
 at the time to be more his own than adoptive. 
 Rogers has paid him some proper compliments, 
 with sound advice intermixed, upon a slight 
 introduction of him by me; for which I feel 
 obliged. Moxon has petition'd me by letter (for 
 he had not the confidence to ask it in London) 
 to introduce him to you during his holydays ; 
 pray pat him on the head, ask him a civil ques- 
 tion or two about his verses, and favour him with 
 your genuine autograph. He shall not be further 
 troublesome. I think I have not sent any one 
 upon a gaping mission to you a good while. 
 
 We are all well, and I have at last broke the 
 bonds of business a second time, never to put 
 'em on again. I pitch Colburn and his maga- 
 zine to the divil. I find I can live without the 
 necessity of writing, tho' last year I fretted my- 
 self to a fever with the hauntings of being 
 starved. Those vapours are flown. All the dif- 
 ference I find is that I have no pocket money: 
 that is, I must not pry upon an old book-stall, 
 and cull its contents as heretofore, but shoulders 
 
 36 
 
of mutton, Whitbread's entire, and Booth's best, 
 abound as formerly. 
 
 I don't know whom or how many to send 
 our love to, your household is so frequently 
 divided, but a general health to all that may be 
 fixed or wandering stars, wherever. We read 
 with pleasure some success (I forget quite what) 
 of one of you at Oxford. Mrs. Monkhouse 
 (* * * was one of you) sent us a kind letter some 
 months back], and we had the pleasure to [see] 
 ler in tolerable spirits, looking well and kind as 
 in bygone days. 
 
 Do take pen, or put it into good-natured 
 hands Dorothean or Wordsworthian-female, or 
 Hutchinsonian, to inform us of your present 
 state, or possible proceedings. I am ashamed 
 that this breaking of the long ice should be a 
 letter of business. There is none circum praecordia 
 nostra I swear by the honesty of pedantry, that 
 wil I nil I pushes me upon scraps of Latin. We 
 are yours cordially, 
 
 Chas. and Mary Lamb 
 
 note 
 
 [The following is an abstract of what seems to be Lamb's 
 first letter to Edward Moxon, obviously written before this 
 date, but not out of place here. The letter seems to have ac- 
 companied the proof of an article on Lamb which he had 
 corrected and was returning to Moxon. I quote from 
 Sotheby's catalogue, May 13, 1903: "Were my own feel- 
 ings consulted I should print it verbatim, but I won't hoax 
 you, else I love a lye. My biography, parentage, place of 
 birth, is a strange mistake, part founded on some nonsense 
 
 37 
 
I wrote about Elia, and was true of him, the real Elia, whose 
 name I took. * * * C. L. was born in Crown Office Row, 
 Inner Temple, in 1775. Admitted into Christ's Hospital, 
 1782, where he was contemporary with T. F. M. [Thomas 
 Fanshawe Middleton], afterwards Bishop of Calcutta, and 
 with S. T. C. ; with the last of these two eminent scholars 
 he has enjoyed an intimacy through life. On quitting this 
 foundation he became a junior clerk in the South Sea House 
 under his elder brother, who died accountant there some years 
 since. * * * I am not the author of the Opium Eater, &c." — 
 E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 CCCCXCI. — TO JOHN BATES DIBDIN 
 
 September 9, 1826. 
 
 An answer is requested. 
 Dear D., — I have observed that a letter is 
 never more acceptable than when received upon 
 a rainy day ; especially a rainy Sunday ; which 
 moves me to send you somewhat, however short. 
 This will find you sitting after breakfast, which 
 you will have prolonged as far as you can with 
 consistency to the poor handmaid that has the 
 reversion of the tea leaves ; making two nibbles 
 of your last morsel of stale roll (you cannot have 
 hot new ones on the Sabbath), and reluctantly 
 coming to an end, because when that is done, 
 what can you do till dinner ? You cannot go to 
 the beach, for the rain is drowning the sea, turn- 
 ing rank Thetis fresh, taking the brine out of 
 Neptune's pickles, while mermaids sit upon rocks 
 with umbrellas, their ivory combs sheathed for 
 spoiling in the wet of waters foreign to them. 
 
 38 
 
You cannot go to the library, for it 's shut. You 
 are not religious enough to go to church. O it 
 is worth while to cultivate piety to the gods, to 
 have something to fill the heart up on a wet Sun- 
 day ! You cannot cast accounts, for your ledger 
 is being eaten up with moths in the Ancient 
 Jewry. You cannot play at draughts, for there 
 is none to play with you, and besides there is not 
 a draught board in the house. You cannot go to 
 market, for it closed last night. You cannot look 
 into the shops, their backs are shut upon you. 
 You cannot read the Bible, for it is not good 
 reading for the sick and the hypochondriacal. 
 You cannot while away an hour with a friend, 
 for you have no friend round that Wrekin. You 
 cannot divert yourself with a stray acquaintance, 
 for you have picked none up. You cannot bear 
 the chiming of bells, for they invite you to a 
 banquet, where you are no visitant. You cannot 
 cheer yourself with the prospect of a to-morrow's 
 letter, for none come on Mondays. You cannot 
 count those endless vials on the mantelpiece with 
 any hope of making a variation in their numbers. 
 You have counted your spiders: your Bastile is 
 exhausted. You sit and deliberately curse your 
 hard exile from all familiar sights and sounds. 
 Old Ranking poking in his head unexpectedly 
 would just now be as good to you as Grimaldi. 
 Anything to deliver you from this intolerable 
 weight of ennui. You are too ill to shake it off: 
 not ill enough to submit to it, and to lie down 
 
 39 
 
as a lamb under it. The Tyranny of Sickness is 
 nothing to the Cruelty of Convalescence: 'tis to 
 have Thirty Tyrants for one. That pattering rain 
 drops on your brain. You '11 be worse after din- 
 ner, for you must dine at one to-day, that Betty 
 may go to afternoon service. She insists upon 
 having her chopped hay. And then when she 
 goes out, who was something to you, something 
 to speak to — what an interminable afternoon 
 you '11 have to go thro'. You can't break your- 
 self from your locality: you cannot say "To- 
 morrow morning I set off for Banstead,by God; " 
 for you are book'd for Wednesday. Foreseeing 
 this, I thought a cheerful letter would come in 
 opportunely. If any of the little topics for mirth 
 I have thought upon should serve you in this utter 
 extinguishment of sunshine, to make you a little 
 merry, I shall have had my ends. I love to make 
 things comfortable. [Here is an erasure.] This, 
 which is scratch'd out, was the most material 
 thing I had to say, but on maturer thoughts I 
 defer it. 
 
 P. S. — We are just sitting down to dinner 
 with a pleasant party, Coleridge, Reynolds the 
 dramatist, and Sam Bloxam: to-morrow (that 
 is, to-day), Liston, and Wyat of the Wells, dine 
 with us. May this find you as jolly and freakish 
 as we mean to be. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 40 
 
CCCCXCIL — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 September 26, 1826. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I don't know why I have delay'd 
 so long writing. 'T was a fault. The under-cur- 
 rent of excuse to my mind was that I had heard of 
 the vessel in which Mitford's jars were to come; 
 that it had been obliged to put into Batavia to 
 refit (which accounts for its delay), but was daily 
 expectated. Days are past, and it comes not, and 
 the mermaids may be drinking their tea out of 
 his china for aught I know ; but let 's hope not. 
 In the meantime I have paid ^28, &c, for the 
 freight and prime cost (which I a little expected 
 he would have settled in London). But do not 
 mention it. I was enabled to do it by a receipt 
 of ^30 from Colburn, with whom, however, 
 I have done. I should else have run short. For 
 I just make ends meet. We will wait the arrival 
 of the trinkets, and to ascertain their full expence, 
 and then bring in the bill. (Don't mention it, 
 for I daresay 'twas mere thoughtlessness). 
 
 I am sorry you and yours have any plagues 
 about dross matters. I have been sadly puzzled 
 at the defalcation of more than one third of my 
 income, out of which when entire I saved no- 
 thing. But cropping off wine, old books, &c, 
 and in short all that can be call'd pocket-money, 
 I hope to be able to go on at the cottage. Re- 
 member, I beg you not to say anything to Mit- 
 ford, for if he be honest it will vex him : if not, 
 
 4i 
 
which I as little expect as that you should be, 
 I have a hank still upon the jars. 
 
 Colburn had something of mine in last month, 
 which he has had in hand these seven months, 
 and had lost, or could n't find room for : I was 
 used to different treatment in the London, and 
 have forsworn periodicals. 
 
 I am going thro' a course of reading at the 
 Museum : the Garrick plays, out of part of 
 which I formed my Specimens : I have two 
 thousand to go thro' ; and in a few weeks have 
 despatch'd the tythe of 'em. It is a sort of office 
 to me ; hours, ten to four, the same. It does me 
 good. Man must have regular occupation, that 
 has been used to it. So A[nna] K [night] keeps 
 a school ! She teaches nothing wrong, I '11 an- 
 swer for 't. I have a Dutch print of a school- 
 mistress ; little old-fashioned Fleminglings, with 
 only one face among them. She a princess of 
 schoolmistress, wielding a rod for form more 
 than use ; the scene an old monastic chapel, with 
 a Madonna over her head, looking just as seri- 
 ous, as thoughtful, as pure, as gentle, as herself. 
 'T is a type of thy friend. 
 
 Will you pardon my neglect ? Mind, again I 
 say, don't shew this to M. ; let me wait a little 
 longer to know the event of his luxuries. (I am 
 sure he is a good fellow, tho' I made a serious 
 Yorkshire lad, who met him, stare when I said 
 he was a clergyman. He is a pleasant layman 
 spoiled.) Heaven send him his jars uncrack'd, 
 
 42 
 
and me my . Yours with kindest wishes to 
 
 your daughter and friend, in which Mary joins, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 CCCCXCIIL — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 [No date.] 
 
 Dear B. B., — If you have a convenient con- 
 veyance, pray transmit this to your friend Mr. 
 Mitford. I have a prelibation of his china for 
 him. It is coming home by the James Scott from 
 Singapore, which I cannot learn is yet arrived. 
 I copy my friend's letter dated Canton, Decem- 
 ber ; he himself I find is in England, having 
 prevented his own letter : 
 
 Dollars 
 1 2 flower stands i o}4 
 42 " pots . \y 2 
 
 1 o cases . 
 
 Chinese duties . 3^ 
 
 Cost in China 27 dollars at 4/6 £6 1 6 
 Freight — Tons feet 
 
 1 2ij^at £16 per ton 22 14 4 
 
 28 15 10 
 
 There will be duties here to pay ; I do not 
 know what. My friend says he is afraid Mr. M. 
 will think them expensive. The articles them- 
 selves, he will see, at prime cost, are little or 
 nothing, but the freight is most heavy, and 
 
 43 
 
would have been half as much more by a Com- 
 pany's ship. I shall keep my eye upon the arrival 
 of the "James Scott, and take measures accord- 
 ingly. Yours truly, Chs. Lamb 
 
 I want a particular direction to Mr. M., that 
 the jars, when they come, may be duly sent. 
 
 CCCCXCIV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 September, 1826. 
 
 I have had much trouble to find Field to-day. 
 No matter. He was packing up for out of town. 
 He has writ a handsomest letter, which you will 
 transmit to Murray with your proof-sheets. 
 Seal it. Yours, C. L. 
 
 Mrs. Hood will drink tea with us on Thurs- 
 day at half-past five at latest. 
 
 N. B. I have lost my Museum reading to-day, 
 — a day with Titus, — owing to your dam'd 
 bisness. I am the last to reproach anybody. I 
 scorn it. If you shall have the whole book ready 
 soon, it will be best for Murray to see. 
 
 CCCCXCV. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 No date. Soon after preceding letter to Barton. 1826. 
 
 Dear B. B., — The Busy Bee, as Hood after 
 Dr. Watts apostrophises thee, and well dost thou 
 deserve it for thy labours in the Muses' gardens, 
 
 44 
 
wandering over parterres of think-on-me's and 
 forget-me-nots, to a total impossibility of for- 
 getting thee, — thy letter was acceptable, thy 
 scruples may be dismissed, thou art rectus in Curia, 
 not a word more to be said, verbum sapienti and 
 so forth, the matter is decided with a white 
 stone, classically, mark me, and the apparitions 
 vanish'd which haunted me, only the cramp, 
 Caliban's distemper, clawing me in the calvish 
 part of my nature, makes me ever and anon roar 
 bullishly, squeak cowardishly, and limp cripple- 
 ishly. Do I write quakerly and simply ? 't is my 
 most Master Mathew-like intention to do it. See 
 Ben Jonson. I think you told me your acquaint- 
 ance with the drama was confin'd to Shakspeare 
 and Miss Bailly : some read only Milton and 
 Croly. The gap is as from an ananas to a turnip. 
 
 I have fighting in my head the plots, charac- 
 ters, situations, and sentiments of four hundred 
 old plays (bran new to me) which I have been 
 digesting at the Museum, and my appetite sharp- 
 ens to twice as many more, which I mean to 
 course over this winter. I can scarce avoid dia- 
 logue fashion in this letter. I soliloquise my 
 meditations, and habitually speak dramatic blank 
 verse without meaning it. 
 
 Do you see Mitford ? he will tell you some- 
 thing of my labours. Tell him I am sorry to have 
 mist seeing him, to have talk'd over those Old 
 Treasures. I am still more sorry for his missing 
 pots. But I shall be sure of the earliest intelli- 
 
 45 
 
gence of the Lost Tribes. His Sacred Specimens 
 are a thankful addition to my shelves. Marry, 
 I could wish he had been more careful of corri- 
 genda. I have discover'd certain which have 
 slipt his errata. I put 'em in the next page, as 
 perhaps thou canst transmit them to him. For 
 what purpose but to grieve him (which yet I 
 should be sorry to do), but then it shews my 
 learning, and the excuse is complimentary, as it 
 implies their correction in a future edition. His 
 own things in the book are magnificent, and as 
 an old Christ's Hospitaller I was particularly 
 refresh'd with his eulogy on our Edward. Many 
 of the choice excerpta were new to me. 
 
 Old Christmas is a-coming, to the confusion 
 of Puritans, Muggletonians, Anabaptists, Quakers, 
 and that Unwassailing Crew. He cometh not 
 with his wonted gait, he is shrunk nine inches 
 in the girth, but is yet a lusty fellow. Hood's 
 book is mighty clever, and went off six hun- 
 dred copies the first day. Sioris Songs do not dis- 
 perse so quickly. The next leaf is for Rev. J. M. 
 In this Adieu thine briefly in a tall friendship, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCXCVI. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 January, 1827. 
 
 Dear Allsop, — Mary will take her chance of 
 an early lunch or dinner with you on Thursday : 
 she can't come on Wednesday. If I can, I will 
 
 46 
 
fetch her home. But I am near killed with 
 Christmasing ; and, if incompetent, your kind- 
 ness will excuse me. I can scarce set foot to 
 ground for a cramp that I took me last night. 
 Yours, C. Lamb 
 
 CCCCXCVII. — TO HENRY C. ROBINSON 
 
 January 20, 1827. 
 
 Dear Robinson, — I called upon you this 
 morning, and found that you were gone to visit 
 a dying friend. I had been upon a like errand. 
 Poor Norris has been lying dying for now al- 
 most a week, such is the penalty we pay for hav- 
 ing enjoyed a strong constitution ! Whether he 
 knew me or not, I know not, or whether he saw 
 me through his poor glazed eyes ; but the group 
 I saw about him I shall not forget. Upon the 
 bed, or about it, were assembled his wife and 
 two daughters, and poor deaf Richard, his son, 
 looking doubly stupified. There they were, and 
 seemed to have been sitting all the week. I could 
 only reach out a hand to Mrs. Norris. Speak- 
 ing was impossible in that mute chamber. By 
 this time I hope it is all over with him. In him 
 I have a loss the world cannot make up. He 
 was my friend and my father's friend all the life 
 I can remember. I seem to have made foolish 
 friendships ever since. Those are friendships 
 which outlive a second generation. Old as I am 
 waxing, in his eyes I was still the child he first 
 
 47 
 
knew me. To the last he called me Charley. I 
 have none to call me Charley now. He was the 
 last link that bound me to the Temple. You are 
 but of yesterday. In him seem to have died the 
 old plainness of manners and singleness of heart. 
 Letters he knew nothing of, nor did his reading 
 extend beyond the pages of the Gentleman s Maga- 
 zine. Yet there was a pride of literature about 
 him from being amongst books (he was librarian), 
 and from some scraps of doubtful Latin which he 
 had picked up in his office of entering students, 
 that gave him very diverting airs of pedantry. 
 Can I forget the erudite look with which, when 
 he had been in vain trying to make out a black- 
 letter text of Chaucer in the Temple Library, 
 he laid it down and told me that — "in those 
 old books, Charley, there is sometimes a deal of 
 very indifferent spelling;" and seemed to con- 
 sole himself in the reflection ! His jokes (for he 
 had his jokes) are now ended, but they were old 
 trusty perennials, staples that pleased after decks 
 repetita, and were always as good as new. One 
 song he had, which was reserved for the night 
 of Christmas-day, which we always spent in the 
 Temple. It was an old thing, and spoke of the 
 flat bottoms of our foes and the possibility of their 
 coming over in darkness, and alluded to threats 
 of an invasion many years blown over ; and when 
 he came to the part, — 
 
 We '11 still make 'em run, and we '11 still make 'em sweat, 
 In spite of the devil and Brussels Gazette ! 
 
 48 
 
his eyes would sparkle as with the freshness of an 
 impending event. And what is the Brussels Ga- 
 zette now ? I cry while I enumerate these trifles. 
 "How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?" 
 His poor good girls will now have to receive 
 their afflicted mother in an inaccessible hovel in 
 an obscure village in Herts, where they have 
 been long struggling to make a school without 
 effect; and poor deaf Richard — and the more 
 helpless for being so — is thrown on the wide 
 world. 
 
 My first motive in writing, and, indeed, in 
 calling on you, was to ask if you were enough 
 acquainted with any of the Benchers, to lay a 
 plain statement before them of the circumstances 
 of the family. I almost fear not, for you are of 
 another hall. But if you can oblige me and 
 my poor friend, who is now insensible to any 
 favours, pray exert yourself. You cannot say too 
 much good of poor Norris and his poor wife. 
 Yours ever, Charles Lamb 
 
 note 
 
 [This letter, describing the death of Randall Norris, Sub- 
 Treasurer and Librarian of the Inner Temple, was printed 
 with only very slight alterations in Hone's Table Book, 1827, 
 and again in the Last Essays of E/ia, 1833, under the title 
 " A Death-Bed." It was, however, taken out of the second 
 edition, and " Confessions of a Drunkard " substituted, in 
 deference to the wishes of Norris's family. Mrs. Norris 
 was a native of Widford, where she had known Mrs. Field, 
 Lamb's grandmother. With her son Richard, who was deaf 
 and peculiar, Mrs. Norris moved to Widford again, where the 
 
 49 
 
daughters, Miss Betsy and Miss Jane, had opened a school 
 — Goddard House ; which they retained until a legacy re- 
 stored the family prosperity. Soon after that they both mar- 
 ried, each a farmer named Tween. They survived until quite 
 recently. Mrs. Coe, an old scholar at the Misses Norris's 
 school in the twenties, gave me, in 1902, some reminiscences 
 of those days, from which I quote a passage or so : 
 
 When he joined the Norrises' dinner-table he kept every one laughing. 
 Mr. Richard sat at one end, and some of the school children would be there 
 too. One day Mr. Lamb gave every one a fancy name all round the table, 
 and made a verse on each. " You are so-and-so," he said, " and you are 
 so-and-so," adding the rhyme. " What * s he saying ? What are you laugh- 
 ing at ? " Mr. Richard asked testily, for he was short-tempered. Miss 
 Betsy explained the joke to him, and Mr. Lamb, coming to his turn, 
 said — only he said it in verse — "Now, Dick, it's your turn. I shall 
 call you Gruborum ; because all you think of is your food and your 
 stomach." Mr. Richard pushed back his chair in a rage and stamped out 
 of the room. "Now I've done it," said Mr. Lamb : "I must go and 
 make friends with my old chum. Give me a large plate of pudding to 
 take to him." When he came back he said, "It's all right. I thought 
 the pudding would do it." Mr. Lamb and Mr. Richard never got on 
 very well, and Mr. Richard didn't like his teasing ways at all ; but Mr. 
 Lamb often went for long walks with him, because no one else would. 
 He did many kind things like that. 
 
 There used to be a half-holiday when Mr. Lamb came, partly because 
 he would force his way into the schoolroom and make seriousness impos- 
 sible. His head would suddenly appear at the door in the midst of les- 
 sons, with "Well, Betsy ! How do, Jane ?" " O, Mr. Lamb !" they 
 would say, and that was the end of work for that day. He was really 
 rather naughty with the children. One of his tricks was to teach them 
 a new kind of catechism (Mrs. Coe does not remember it, but we may 
 rest assured, I fear, that it was secular), and he made a great fuss with 
 Lizzie Hunt for her skill in saying the Lord's Prayer backwards, which 
 he had taught her. — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 CCCCXCVIII. — TO HENRY C. ROBINSON 
 
 January 20, 1827. 
 
 Dear R., — N. is dead. I have writ as nearly 
 as I could to look like a letter meant for your eye 
 only. Will it do ? 
 
 Could you distantly hint (do as your own judg- 
 
 5° 
 
ment suggests) that if his son could be got in as 
 clerk to the new subtreasurer, it would be all his 
 father wish'd ? But I leave that to you. I don't 
 want to put you upon anything disagreeable. 
 Yours thankfully, C. L. 
 
 CCCCXCIX. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 January 25, 1827. 
 
 My dear Allsop, — I cannot forbear thanking 
 you foryour kind interference with Taylor, whom 
 I do not expect to see in haste at Islington. 
 
 It is hardly weather to ask a dog up here, but 
 I need hardly say how happy we shall be to see 
 you. I cannot be out of evenings till John Frost 
 be routed. We came home from Newman Street 
 the other night late, and I was crampt all night. 
 
 Love to Mrs. Allsop. Yours truly, C. L. 
 
 D. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 January 27, 1827. 
 
 Dear Sir, — It is not unknown to you that 
 about sixteen years since I published Specimens of 
 English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time of 
 Shakspeare. For the scarcer plays I had recourse 
 to the collection bequeathed to the British Mu- 
 seum by Mr. Garrick. But my time was but 
 short; and my subsequent leisure has discovered 
 in it a treasure rich and exhaustless beyond what 
 I then imagined. In it is to be found almost every 
 
 5 1 
 
production, in the shape of a play, that has ap- 
 peared in print since the time of the old mys- 
 teries and moralities to the days of Crown and 
 D'Urfey. Imagine the luxury to one like me 
 — who, above every other form of poetry, have 
 ever preferred the dramatic — of sitting in the 
 princely apartments, for such they are, of poor, 
 condemned Montagu House, — which, I predict, 
 will not soon be followed by a handsomer, — and 
 culling at will the flowers of some thousand 
 dramas ! It is like having the range of a noble- 
 man's library, with the librarian to your friend. 
 Nothing can exceed the courteousness and atten- 
 tions of the gentleman who has the chief direc- 
 tion of the reading-rooms here; and you have 
 scarce to ask for a volume before it is laid before 
 you. If the occasional extracts which I have been 
 tempted to bring away may find an appropriate 
 place in your Table Book, some of them are weekly 
 at your service. By those who remember the 
 Specimens these must be considered as mere after- 
 gleanings, supplementary to that work, only com- 
 prising a longer period. You must be content 
 with sometimes a scene, sometimes a song, a 
 speech, a passage, or a poetical image, as they 
 happen to strike me. I read without order of 
 time ; I am a poor hand at dates ; and, for any 
 biography of the dramatists, I must refer to 
 writers who are more skilful in such matters. 
 My business is with their poetry only. 
 
 Your well-wisher, C. Lamb 
 
 52 
 
DI. — TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON 
 
 January 29, 1827. 
 
 Dear Robinson, — If you have not seen Mr. 
 Gurney, leave him quite alone for the present, I 
 have seen Mr. Jekyll, who is as friendly as heart 
 can desire ; he entirely approves of my formula of 
 petition, and gave your very reasons for the pro- 
 priety of the "little village of Hertfordshire." 
 Now, Mr. G. might not approve of it, and then 
 we should clash. Also, Mr. J. wishes it to be pre- 
 sented next week, and Mr. G. might fix earlier, 
 which would be awkward. Mr. J. was so civil 
 to me that I think it would be better not for you to 
 show him that letter you intended. Nothing can in- 
 crease his zeal in the cause of poor Mr. Norris. 
 Mr. Gardiner will see you with this, and learn 
 from you all about it, and consult, if you have 
 seen Mr. G. and he has fixed a time, how to put 
 it off. Mr. J. is most friendly to the boy : I think 
 you had better not tease the treasurer any more 
 about him, as it may make him less friendly to 
 the petition. Yours ever, C. L. 
 
 DII. — TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON 
 
 January, 1827. 
 
 Dear R., — Do not say anything to Mr. G. 
 about the day or petition, for Mr. Jekyll wishes 
 it to be next week, and thoroughly approves of 
 my formula, and Mr. G. might not, and then they 
 
 53 
 
will clash. Only speak to him of Gardner's wish to 
 have the lad. Mr. Jekyll was excessive friendly. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 Dili.— TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 February 2, 1827. 
 
 My dear friend, — I went to Highgate this 
 day. I gave to S. T. C. your letter which he 
 immediately answered, and to which Mrs. G. 
 insisted upon adding her own. They seem to 
 me all exceedingly to partake in your troubles. 
 Pray get over your reluctance to paying him 
 a visit, see and talk with him. Hear what he has 
 to say, connected closely with his own expecta- 
 tions, as to your desire. Something, I believe, is 
 doing for him. But hear him himself, look him 
 and your affairs in the face. Older men than you 
 have surmounted worse difficulties. I should have 
 written straight to you from Highgate, but we 
 have had a source of troubles this last week or two, 
 and yours added to it, have broke my spirits. I 
 could hardly drag to and from Highgate. If you 
 don't like to go, better appoint him your, my 
 house, or anywhere, but meet him. I am sure 
 there is great reason you should not shun him, 
 for I found him thinking on your perplexities 
 and wanting to see you. 
 
 Mary's and my best love to Mrs. Allsop, 
 Yours ever, C. Lamb 
 
 54 
 
DIV.— TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE 
 
 February 2, 1827. 
 
 Dear Cowden, — Your books are as the gush- 
 ing of streams in a desert. By the way, you have 
 sent no autobiographies. Your letter seems to 
 imply you had. Nor do I want any. Cowden, 
 they are of the books which I give away. What 
 damn'd Unitarian skewer-soul'd things the gen- 
 eral biographies turn out. 
 
 Rank and Talent you shall have when Mrs. 
 Mary has done with 'em. Mary likes Mrs. Bedin- 
 Jield much. For me I read nothing but Astrea 
 
 — it has turn'd my brain — I go about with 
 a switch turn'd up at the end for a crook • and 
 Lambs being too old, the butcher tells me, my 
 cat follows me in a green ribband. Becky and 
 her cousin are getting pastoral dresses, and then 
 we shall all four go about Arcadizing. O cruel 
 Shepherdess ! Inconstant yet fair, and more in- 
 constant for being fair ! Her gold ringlets fell 
 in a disorder superior to order ! 
 
 Come and join us. I am called the Black 
 Shepherd — you shall be Cowden with the Tuft. 
 Prosaically, we shall be glad to have you both 
 
 — or any two of you — drop in by surprise some 
 Saturday night. 
 
 This must go off. Loves to Vittoria. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 55 
 
DV. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 February 5, 1827. 
 
 For God's sake be more sparing of your po- 
 etry: your this week's number has an excess 
 of it. In haste, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 DVI. — TO B. R. HAYDON 
 
 March, 1827. 
 
 Dear Raffaele Haydon, — Did the maid tell 
 you I came to see your picture, not on Sunday but 
 the day before ? I think the face and bearing of 
 the Bucephalus-tamer very noble, his flesh too 
 effeminate or painty. The skin of the female's 
 back kneeling is much more carnous. I had small 
 time to pick out praise or blame, for two lord-like 
 bucks came in, upon whose strictures my presence 
 seemed to impose restraint : I plebeian'd off there- 
 fore. 
 
 I think I have hit on a subject for you, but 
 can't swear it was never executed, — I never 
 heard of its being, — "Chaucer beating a Fran- 
 ciscan Friar in Fleet Street." Think of the old 
 dresses, houses, &c. "It seemeth that both these 
 learned men (Gower and Chaucer) were of the 
 Inner Temple ; for not many years since, Master 
 Buckley did see a record in the same house 
 where Geoffry Chaucer was fined two shillings 
 for beating a Franciscan Friar in Fleet Street." 
 
 56 
 
Chaucer s Life by T. Speght, prefixed to the black 
 letter folio of Chaucer, 1598. 
 Yours in haste (salt fish waiting), C. Lamb 
 
 DVIL — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 March 20, 1827. 
 
 Damnable erratum (can't you notice it ?) in the 
 last line but two of the last Extract in No. 9, Gar- 
 rick Plays, — 
 
 Blushing forth golden hair and glorious red : 
 
 A sun-bright line spoil'd. 
 67. Blush for Blushing. 
 
 N. B. — The general number was excellent. 
 Also a few lines higher, — 
 
 Restrain'd Liberty attain'd is sweet 
 
 should have a full stop. 'T is the end of the old 
 man's speech. These little blemishes kill such 
 delicate things ; prose feeds on grosser punctual- 
 ities. You have now three numbers in hand ; 
 one I sent you yesterday. Of course I send no 
 more till Sunday week. 
 
 P.S. Omitted above, Dear Hone. C. L. 
 
 DVIII.— TO VINCENT NOVELLO 
 
 April, 1827. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I conjure you, in the name of all 
 the Sylvan Deities, and of the Muses, whom you 
 
 57 
 
honour, and they reciprocally love and honour 
 you, rescue this old and passionate Ditty — the 
 very flower of an old, forgotten Pastoral, which, 
 had it been in all parts equal, the Faithful Shep- 
 herdess of Fletcher had been but a second name 
 in this sort of writing — rescue it from the pro- 
 fane hands of every common composer ; and in 
 one of your tranquillest moods, when you have 
 most leisure from those sad thoughts which some- 
 times unworthily beset you — yet a mood in it- 
 self not unallied to the better sort of melancholy 
 — laying by, for once, the lofty organ, with which 
 you shake the Temples, attune, as to the pipe of 
 Paris himself, to some milder and love-accord- 
 ing instrument, this pretty courtship between 
 Paris and his (then-not-as-yet-forsaken) QEnone. 
 Oblige me, and all more knowing judges of mu- 
 sic and of poesy by the adaptation of fit musical 
 numbers, which it only wants, to be the rarest 
 love dialogue in our language. 
 
 Your Implore, C. L. 
 
 DIX. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 April, 1827. 
 
 Dear H., — Never come to our house and not 
 come in. I was quite vex'd. 
 
 Yours truly, C. L. 
 
 There is in Blackwood this month an article 
 most affecting indeed called Le Revenant, and 
 
 58 
 
would do more towards abolishing capital pun- 
 ishments than 400,000 Romillies or Montagues. 
 I beg you read it and see if you can extract any 
 of it, — the 'Trial scene in particular. 
 
 DX. — TO THOMAS HOOD 
 
 May, 1827. 
 
 Dearest Hood, — Your news has spoil'd us 
 a merry meeting. Miss Kelly and we were com- 
 ing, but your letter elicited a flood of tears from 
 Mary, and I saw she was not fit for a party. God 
 bless you and the mother (or should be mother) 
 of your sweet girl that should have been. I have 
 won sexpence of Moxon by the sex of the dear 
 gone one. 
 
 Yours most truly and hers, C. L. 
 
 DXL — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 1827. 
 
 My dear B. B., — A gentleman I never saw 
 before brought me your welcome present — 
 imagine a scraping, fiddling, fidgeting, petit- 
 maitre of a dancing-school advancing into my 
 plain parlour with a coupee and a sidling bow, 
 and presenting the book as if he had been hand- 
 ing a glass of lemonade to a young miss — 
 imagine this, and contrast it with the serious 
 nature of the book presented ! Then task your 
 imagination, reversing this picture, to conceive 
 
 59 
 
of quite an opposite messenger, a lean, straight- 
 locked, whey-faced Methodist, for such was he 
 in reality who brought it, the genius (it seems) 
 of the Wesleyan Magazine. 
 
 Certes, friend B., thy Widow's Tale is too 
 horrible, spite of the lenitives of religion, to 
 embody in verse : I hold prose to be the appro- 
 priate expositor of such atrocities ! No offence, 
 but it is a cordial that makes the heart sick. Still 
 thy skill in compounding it I do not deny. I 
 turn to what gave me less mingled pleasure. I 
 find mark'd with pencil these pages in thy pretty 
 book, and fear I have been penurious : 
 
 Pa g e 5 2 > 53. capital. 
 
 59, 6th stanza exquisite simile. 
 6i, nth stanza equally good. 
 
 108, 3d stanza, I long to see Van Balen. 
 
 1 1 1 , a downright good sonnet. Dixi. 
 
 153, lines at the bottom. 
 So you see, I read, hear, and mark, if I don't 
 learn ; in short this little volume is no discredit 
 to any of your former, and betrays none of the 
 senility you fear about. Apropos of Van Balen, 
 an artist who painted me lately had painted a 
 blackamoor praying, and not filling his canvas, 
 stuff 'd in his little girl aside of blacky, gaping 
 at him unmeaningly ; and then did n't know 
 what to call it. Now for a picture to be pro- 
 moted to the Exhibition (Suffolk Street) as His- 
 torical, a subject is requisite. What does me ? I 
 but christen it the Young Catechist and furbish'd 
 
 60 
 
it with dialogue following, which dubb'd it an 
 historical painting. Nothing to a friend at need. 
 
 While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, 
 
 Painter, who is she that stayeth 
 
 By, with skin of whitest lustre ; 
 
 Sunny locks, a shining cluster ; 
 
 Saintlike seeming to direct him 
 
 To the Power that must protect him ? 
 
 Is she of the heav'nborn Three, 
 
 Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity ? 
 
 Or some cherub ? 
 
 They you mention 
 Far transcend my weak invention. 
 'T is a simple Christian child, 
 Missionary young and mild, 
 From her store of script'ral knowledge 
 (Bible-taught without a college) 
 Which by reading she could gather, 
 Teaches him to say Our Father 
 To the common Parent, who 
 Colour not respects nor hue. 
 White and black in him have part, 
 Who looks not to the skin, but heart. 
 
 When I 'd done it, the artist (who had clapt in 
 Miss merely as a fill-space) swore I exprest his 
 full meaning, and the damosel bridled up into 
 a missionary's vanity. I like verses to explain 
 pictures: seldom pictures to illustrate poems. 
 Your woodcut is a rueful lignum mortis. By the 
 by, is the widow likely to marry again ? 
 
 I am giving the fruit of my Old Play reading 
 at the Museum to Hone, who sets forth a por- 
 tion weekly in the Table Book. Do you see it ? 
 How is Mitford ? 
 
 61 
 
I '11 just hint that the pitcher, the chord and 
 the bowl are a little too often repeated [passim) in 
 your book, and that on page seventeen last line 
 but four him is put for he, but the poor widow I 
 take it had small leisure for grammatical niceties. 
 Don't you see there 's He, myself, and him ; why 
 not both him? likewise imperviously is cruelly 
 spelt imperiously. These are trifles, and I honestly 
 like your book, and you for giving it, tho' I 
 really am ashamed of so many presents. 
 
 I can think of no news, therefore I will end 
 with mine and Mary's kindest remembrances to 
 you and yours, C. L. 
 
 DXII. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 May, 1827. 
 
 Sir, — A correspondent in your last number 
 rather hastily asserts that there is no other au- 
 thority than Davenport's Tragedy for the poison- 
 ing of Matilda by King John. It oddly enough 
 happens, that in the same number appears an 
 extract from a play of Heywood's, of an older 
 date, in two parts, in which play the fact of such 
 poisoning, as well as her identity with Maid 
 Marian, are equally established. Michael Dray- 
 ton, also, hath a legend confirmatory (so far as 
 poetical authority can go) of the violent manner 
 of her death. But neither he nor Davenport 
 confounds her with Robin's mistress. Besides 
 the named authorities, old Fuller, I think, some- 
 
 62 
 
where relates, as matter of chronicle-history, 
 that old Fitzwater (he is called Fitzwater both 
 in Hey wood and in Davenport), being banished 
 after his daughter's murder, — some years subse- 
 quently, King John, at a tournament in France, 
 being delighted with the valiant bearing of a 
 combatant in the lists, and enquiring his name, 
 was told it was his old servant, the banished 
 Fitzwater, who desired nothing more heartily 
 than to be reconciled to his liege ; and an 
 affecting reconciliation followed. In the com- 
 mon collection, called Robin Hood's Garland 
 (I have not seen Ritson's), no mention is made, 
 if I remember, of the nobility of Marian. Is 
 she not the daughter of old Squire Gamwell, 
 of Gamwell Hall ? Sorry that I cannot gratify 
 the curiosity of your "disembodied spirit" (who, 
 as such is, methinks, sufficiently " veiled " from 
 our notice) with more authentic testimonies, I 
 rest, Your humble Abstractor, C. L. 
 
 DXIII. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 End of May, 1827. 
 
 Dear H., — In the forthcoming New Monthly 
 are to be verses of mine on a picture about angels. 
 Translate 'em to the Table-Book. I am off for 
 Enfield. Yours, C. L. 
 
 63 
 
DXIV. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 June, 1827. 
 
 Dear Hone, — I should like this in your next 
 book. We are at Enfield, where (when we have 
 solituded a while) we shall be glad to see you. 
 Yours, C. Lamb 
 
 DXV. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 June 11, 1827. 
 
 Dear B. B., — One word more of the picture 
 verses, and that for good and all ; pray, with a 
 neat pen alter one line, — 
 
 His learning seems to lay small stress on — 
 to,— 
 
 His learning lays no mighty stress on — 
 
 to avoid the unseemly recurrence (ungrammat- 
 ical also) of "seems" in the next line, besides 
 the nonsense of "but" there, as it now stands. 
 And I request you, as a personal favour to me, to 
 erase the last line of all, which I should never 
 have written from myself. The fact is, it was 
 a silly joke of Hood's, who gave me the frame 
 (you judg'd rightly it was not its own), with the 
 remark that you would like it, because it was 
 b — d b — d, — and I lugg'd it in: but I shall be 
 quite hurt if it stands, because tho' you and yours 
 have too good sense to object to it, I would not 
 have a sentence of mine seen that to any foolish 
 ear might sound unrespectful to thee. Let it end 
 
 64 
 
at " appalling ; " the joke is coarse and useless, 
 and hurts the tone of the rest. Take your best 
 " ivory-handled " and scrape it forth. 
 
 Your specimen of what you might have 
 written is hardly fair. Had it been a present to 
 me, I should have taken a more sentimental 
 tone ; but of a trifle from me it was my cue to 
 speak in an underish tone of commendation. 
 Prudent givers (what a word for such a nothing) 
 disparage their gifts ; 't is an art we have. So 
 you see you would n't have been so wrong, 
 taking a higher tone. But enough of nothing. 
 
 By the bye, I suspected M. of being the dis- 
 parager of the frame ; hence a certain line. 
 
 For the frame, 'tis as the room is where it 
 hangs. It hung up fronting my old cobwebby 
 folios and batter'd furniture (the fruit piece has 
 resum'd its place) and was much better than a 
 spick and span one. But if your room be very 
 neat and your other pictures bright with gilt, it 
 should be so too. I can't judge, not having 
 seen ; but my dingy study it suited. 
 
 Martin's Belshazzar (the picture) I have seen. 
 Its architectural effect is stupendous ; but the 
 human figures, the squalling contorted little 
 antics that are playing at being frighten' d, like 
 children at a sham ghost who half know it to 
 be a mask, are detestable. Then the letters are 
 nothing more than a transparency lighted up, 
 such as a Lord might order to be lit up on 
 a sudden at a Xmas gambol, to scare the ladies. 
 
 65 
 
The type is as plain as Baskerville's — they should 
 have been dim, full of mystery, letters to the 
 mind rather than the eye. 
 
 Rembrandt has painted only Belshazzar and 
 a courtier or two (taking a part of the banquet 
 for the whole) not fribbled out a mob of fine 
 folks. Then everything is so distinct, to the very 
 necklaces, and that foolish little prophet. What 
 one point is there of interest ? The ideal of such 
 a subject is, that you the spectator should see 
 nothing but what at the time you would have 
 seen, the band — and the King — not to be at 
 leisure to make taylor-remarks on the dresses, 
 or Doctor Kitchener-like to examine the good 
 things at table. 
 
 Just such a confus'd piece is his Joshua, frit- 
 ter' d into a thousand fragments, little armies 
 here, little armies there : you should see only 
 the Sun and Joshua ; if I remember, he has not 
 left out that luminary entirely, but for Joshua, 
 I was ten minutes a-finding him out. 
 
 Still he is showy in all that is not the human 
 figure or the preternatural interest : but the first 
 are below a drawing-school girl's attainment, 
 and the last is a phantasmagoric trick, " Now 
 you shall see what you shall see, dare is Balshaz- 
 zar and dare is Daniel." 
 
 You have my thoughts of M. and so adieu, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 66 
 
DXVI. — TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON 
 
 June 26, 1827. 
 
 Dear H. C, — We are at Mrs. Leishman's, 
 Chase, Enfield. Why not come down by the 
 Green Lanes on Sunday ? Picquet all day. Pass 
 the church, pass the " Rising Sun," turn sharp 
 round the corner, and we are the sixth or 
 seventh house on the Chase: tall elms darken 
 the door. If you set eyes on M. Burney, bring 
 him. Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 DXVII. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 June, 1827. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Somebody has fairly play'd a hoax 
 on you (I suspect that pleasant rogue M-x-n) in 
 sending the sonnet in my name inserted in your 
 last number. True it is, that I must own to the 
 verses being mine, but not written on the occa- 
 sion there pretended, for I have not yet had the 
 pleasure of seeing the lady in the part of 
 "Emmeline;" and I have understood that the 
 force of her acting in it is rather in the expres- 
 sion of new-born sight, than of the previous 
 want of it. The lines were really written upon 
 her performance in the Blind Boy, and appeared 
 in the Morning Chronicle years back. I suppose 
 our facetious friend thought that they would 
 serve again, like an old coat new turned. 
 
 Yours (and his nevertheless), C. Lamb 
 67 
 
DXVIII. — TO WILLIAM HONE ' 
 
 Early July, 1827. 
 
 Dear H., — This is Hood's, done from the 
 life, of Mary getting over a stile here. Mary, 
 out of a pleasant revenge, wants you to get it 
 engrav'd in Table Book to surprise H., who I 
 know will be amus'd with you so doing. 
 
 Append some observations about the awk- 
 wardness of country stiles about Edmonton, and 
 the difficulty of elderly ladies getting over 'em. 
 
 That is to say, if you think the sketch good 
 enough. 
 
 I take on myself the warranty. 
 
 Can you slip down here some day and go 
 a-Green-dragoning ? C. L. 
 
 If you do, send Hood the number, No. 2 
 Robert Street, Adelphi, and keep the sketch for 
 me. 
 
 DXIX. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 July 17, 1827. 
 
 Dear M., — Thanks for your attentions of 
 every kind. Emma will not fail Mrs. Hood's 
 kind invitation, but her aunt is so queer a one 
 that we cannot let her go with a single gentle- 
 man singly to Vauxhall; she would withdraw 
 
 1 An autograph facsimile of this note, together with sketch, appears 
 in its chronological order in the back of Vol. I. 
 
 68 
 
her from us altogether in a fright ; but if any 
 of the Hoods' family accompany you, then there 
 can be small objection. 
 
 I have been writing letters till too dark to see 
 the marks. I can just say we shall be happy to 
 see you any Sunday after the next: say, the Sun- 
 day after, and perhaps the Hoods will come too 
 and have a merry other day, before they go hence. 
 But next Sunday we expect as many as we can 
 well entertain. 
 
 With ours and Emma's acknowledgments, 
 Yours, C. L. 
 
 DXX. — TO P. G. PATMORE 
 
 Londres, Julie 19, 1827. 
 
 Dear P., — I am so poorly ! I have been to 
 a funeral, where I made a pun, to the consterna- 
 tion of the rest of the mourners. And we had 
 wine. I can't describe to you the howl which 
 the widow set up at proper intervals. Dash could, 
 for it was not unlike what he makes. 
 
 The letter I sent you was one directed to the 
 care of E. White, India House, for Mrs. Hazlitt. 
 Which Mrs. Hazlitt I don't yet know, but A. 
 has taken it to France on speculation. Really 
 it is embarrassing. There is Mrs. present H., 
 Mrs. late H., and Mrs. John H., and to which 
 of the three Mrs. Wiggins's it appertains, I don't 
 know. I wanted to open it, but it 's transporta- 
 tion. 
 
 69 
 
I am sorry you are plagued about your book. 
 I would strongly recommend you to take for 
 one story Massinger's Old Law. It is exquisite. 
 I can think of no other. 
 
 Dash is frightful this morning. He whines and 
 stands up on his hind legs. He misses Beckey, 
 who is gone to town. I took him to Barnet the 
 other day, and he couldn't eat his victuals after 
 it. Pray God his intellectuals be not slipping. 
 
 Mary is gone out for some soles. I suppose 
 't is no use to ask you to come and partake of 
 'em ; else there 's a steam-vessel. 
 
 I am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and 
 have got on tolerably ; but it will be refused, or 
 worse. I never had luck with anything my name 
 was put to. 
 
 Oh, I am so poorly ! I waked it at my cousin's 
 the bookbinder's, who is now with God ; or, if 
 he is not, it 's no fault of mine. 
 
 We hope the Frank wines do not disagree with 
 Mrs. Patmore. By the way, I like her. 
 
 Did you ever taste frogs ? Get them, if you 
 can. They are like little Lilliput rabbits, only 
 a thought nicer. 
 
 Christ, how sick I am ! — not of the world, 
 but of the widow's shrub. She 's sworn under 
 ^6000, but I think she perjured herself. She 
 howls in E la, and I comfort her in B flat. You 
 understand music ? 
 
 " No shrimps ! " (That's in answer to Mary's 
 question about how the soles are to be done.) 
 
 7° 
 
I am uncertain where this wandering letter may 
 reach you. What you mean by Poste Restante, 
 God knows. Do you mean I must pay the post- 
 age ? So I do to Dover. 
 
 We had a merry passage with the widow at 
 the Commons. She was howling — part howl- 
 ing and part giving directions to the proctor — 
 when crash ! down went my sister through a crazy 
 chair, and made the clerks grin, and I grinned, 
 and the widow tittered — and then I knew that she 
 was not inconsolable. Mary was more frightened 
 than hurt. She 'd make a good match for any- 
 body (by she, I mean the widow). 
 
 If he brings but a relict away. 
 
 He is happy, nor heard to complain. Shenstone 
 
 Procter has got a wen growing out at the nape 
 of his neck, which his wife wants him to have 
 cut off; but I think it rather an agreeable ex- 
 crescence — like his poetry — redundant. Hone 
 has hanged himself for debt. Godwin was taken 
 up for picking pockets. Moxon has fallen in love 
 with Emma, our nut-brown maid. Beckey takes 
 to bad courses. Her father was blown up in a 
 steam machine. The coroner found it insanity. 
 I should not like him to sit on my letter. 
 
 Do you observe my direction ? Is it Gallic ? — 
 classical ? 
 
 Do try and get some frogs. You must ask for 
 " grenouilles " (green-eels). They don't under- 
 stand " frogs," though it's a common phrase with 
 us. 
 
 7 1 
 
If you go through Bulloign (Boulogne) en- 
 quire if old Godfrey is living, and how he got 
 home from the Crusades. He must be a very old 
 man now. 
 
 If there is anything new in politics or litera- 
 ture in France, keep it till I see you again, for 
 I'm in no hurry. Chatty-Briant is well I hope. 
 
 I think I have no more news ; only give both 
 our loves (" all three," says Dash) to Mrs. Pat- 
 more, and bid her get quite well, as I am at 
 present, bating qualms, and the grief incident to 
 losing a valuable relation. C. L. 
 
 DXXI. — TO MRS. DILLON 
 
 July 21, 1827. 
 
 I think it is not quite the etiquette for me 
 to answer my sister's letter, but she is no great 
 scribe, and I know will be glad to find it done 
 for her. We are both very thankful to you for 
 your thinking about Emma, whom for the last 
 seven weeks I have been teaching Latin, and she 
 is already qualified to impart the rudiments to 
 a child. 
 
 We shall have much pleasure in seeing Mr. 
 Dillon and you again, but I don't know when 
 that may be, as we find ourselves very comfort- 
 able at Enfield. 
 
 My sister joins in acknowledgments, and kind- 
 est respects to Mr. Dillon and yourself. 
 
 Your obliged, C. Lamb 
 
 72 
 
DXXII. — TO MRS. PERCY B. SHELLEY 
 
 July 25, 1827. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Shelley, — At the risk of throwing 
 away some fine thoughts, I must write to say how 
 pleased we were with your very kind remember- 
 ing of us (who have unkindly run away from all 
 our friends) before you go. Perhaps you are gone, 
 and then my tropes are wasted. If any piece of 
 better fortune has lighted upon you than you ex- 
 pected, but less than we wish you, we are rejoiced. 
 We are here trying to like solitude, but have 
 scarce enough to justify the experiment. We get 
 some, however. The six days are our Sabbath ; 
 the seventh — why, Cockneys will come for a 
 little fresh air, and so — But by your month, or 
 October at furthest, we hope to see Islington : 
 I like a giant refreshed with the leaving off of 
 wine, and Mary, pining for Mr. Moxon's books 
 and Mr. Moxon's society. Then we shall meet. 
 
 I am busy with a farce in two acts, the inci- 
 dents tragi-comic. I can do the dialogue commy 
 for: but the damned plot — I believe I must 
 omit it altogether. The scenes come after one 
 another like geese, not marshalling like cranes or 
 a Hyde Park review. The story is as simple as 
 G[eorge] D[yer], and the language plain as his 
 spouse. The characters are three women to one 
 man ; which is one more than laid hold on him in 
 the " Evangely." I think that prophecy squinted 
 towards my drama. 
 
 73 
 
I want some Howard Paine to sketch a skele- 
 ton of artfully succeeding scenes through a whole 
 play, as the courses are arranged in a cookery 
 book : I to find wit, passion, sentiment, char- 
 acter, and the like trifles : to lay in the dead 
 colours, — I 'd Titianesque 'em up: to mark the 
 channel in a cheek (smooth or furrowed, yours or 
 mine), and where tears should course I 'd draw 
 the waters down : to say where a joke should 
 come in or a pun be left out : to bring my personae 
 on and off like a Beau Nash ; and I 'd Franken- 
 stein them there : to bring three together on the 
 stage at once ; they are so shy with me that I 
 can get no more than two ; and there they stand 
 till it is the time, without being the season, to 
 withdraw them. 
 
 I am teaching Emma Latin to qualify her for 
 a superior governess-ship ; which we see no 
 prospect of her getting. 'T is like feeding a child 
 with chopped hay from a spoon. Sisyphus — his 
 labours were nothing to it. 
 
 Actives and passives jostle in her numscull, 
 till a deponent enters, like Chaos, more to em- 
 broil the fray. Her prepositions are suppositions ; 
 her conjunctions copulative have no connection 
 in them ; her concords disagree ; her interjections 
 are purely English "Ah!" and "Oh!" with a 
 yawn and a gape in the same tongue ; and she 
 herself is a lazy, block-headly supine. As I say to 
 her, ass in praesenti rarely makes a wise man in 
 futuro. 
 
 74' 
 
But I daresay it was so with you when you 
 began Latin, and a good while after. Good-bye ! 
 Mary's love. Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 DXXIII. — TO EDWARD WHITE 
 
 August i, 1827. 
 
 My dear White, — Never was man so puzzl'd 
 about mortal letter as I about that you sent. Be- 
 sides the two Mrs. Hazlitts, there was a third, 
 Mrs. John Hazlitt, who has a boy abroad, and 
 on that ground was a candidate, but my sagacity 
 snuff'd out the true Mrs. Wiggins, and Allsop 
 has by this time deposited it at its destination, at 
 Paris. 
 
 I could but admire the quirk by which you at- 
 tempt to saddle me with the postage. You come 
 into my lodgings, and expect me to pay your rent, 
 because if I had not quitted you would not have 
 been charged with it. When I threw off my post, 
 I resigned with it both emoluments and incum- 
 brances. You are welcome to all. Mrs. Hazlitt 
 the second might just as well charge Mrs. H. the 
 second with the postage. It is a perfect insult 
 upon my understanding. Besides, 't is mean in 
 a gentleman on the establishment and not to be 
 thought on. Well, I forgive you and heartily 
 commending you to mind your ledger, and keep 
 your eye on Mr. Chambers' balances, which you 
 understand better than these matters, subscribe 
 your friend, C. L. 
 
 75 
 
DXXIV.— TO MRS. BASIL MONTAGU 
 
 Summer, 1827. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I return your list with my 
 name. I should be sorry that any respect should 
 be going on towards [Clarkson], and I be left out 
 of the conspiracy. Otherwise I frankly own that 
 to pillarize a man's good feelings in his lifetime 
 is not to my taste. Monuments to goodness, even 
 after death, are equivocal. I turnawayfrom How- 
 ard's, I scarce know why. Goodness blows no 
 trumpet, nor desires to have it blown. We should 
 be modest for a modest man — as he is for him- 
 self. The vanities of life — art, poetry, skill mili- 
 tary, are subjects for trophies; not the silent 
 thoughts arising in a good man's mind in lonely 
 places. Was I C[larkson], I should never be able 
 
 to walk or ride near again. Instead of bread, 
 
 we are giving him a stone. Instead of the local- 
 ity recalling the noblest moment of his existence, 
 it is a place at which his friends (that is, him- 
 self) blow to the world, "What a good man is 
 he ! " I sat down upon a hillock at Forty Hill 
 yesternight — a fine contemplative evening, — 
 with a thousand good speculations about man- 
 kind. How I yearned with cheap benevolence ! 
 I shall go and inquire of the stone-cutter, that 
 cuts the tombstones here, what a stone with a 
 short inscription will cost ; just to say — " Here 
 C. Lamb loved his brethren of mankind." Ev- 
 erybody will come there to love. As I can't well 
 
 76 
 
put my own name, I shall put about a subscrip- 
 tion : 
 
 s. d. 
 
 Mrs. . .50 
 
 Procter . . .26 
 G. Dyer . .10 
 Mr. Godwin . o o 
 Mrs. Godwin . o o 
 Mr. Irving . . a watch-chain. 
 
 Mr. 
 
 the proceeds of - 
 
 first edition, — a cap- 
 n s ital book, by the bye, 
 but not over saleable. 
 
 I scribble in haste from here, where we shall 
 be some time. Pray request Mr. M[ontagu] to 
 advance the guinea for me, which shall faith- 
 fully be forthcoming; and pardon me that I 
 don't see the proposal in quite the light that he 
 may. The kindness of his motives, and his power 
 of appreciating the noble passage, I thoroughly 
 agree in. 
 
 With most kind regards to him, I conclude, 
 Dear Madam, yours truly, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [The explanation of Lamb's joke about a watch-chain is to 
 be found in Carlyle's Reminiscences. Irving had put down as 
 his contribution to some subscription list, at a public meeting, 
 " an actual gold watch, which he said had just arrived to him 
 
 77 
 
from his beloved brother lately dead in India." This rather 
 theatrical action had evidently amused Lamb as it had dis- 
 gusted Carlyle. — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 DXXV. — TO SIR JOHN STODDART 
 
 August 9, 1827. 
 
 Dear Knight-old-acquaintance, — 'T is with 
 a violence to the pure imagination (vide the Ex- 
 cursion passim) that I can bring myself to believe 
 I am writing to Dr. Stoddart once again, at 
 Malta. But the deductions of severe reason war- 
 rant the proceeding. I write from Enfield, where 
 we are seriously weighing the advantages of 
 dulness over the over-excitement of too much 
 company, but have not yet come to a conclu- 
 sion. What is the news ? for we see no paper 
 here ; perhaps you can send us an old one from 
 Malta. Only, I heard a butcher in the market- 
 place whisper something about a change of min- 
 istry. I don't know who 's in or out, or care, 
 only as it might affect you. For domestic tidings, 
 I have only to tell, with extreme regret, that poor 
 Eliza Fenwick (that was) — Mrs. Rutherford — 
 is dead ; and that we have received a most heart- 
 broken letter from her mother — left with four 
 grandchildren, orphans of a living scoundrel lurk- 
 ing about the pothouses of Little Russell Street, 
 London: they and she — God help 'em ! — at 
 New York. I have just received Godwin's third 
 volume of the Republic, which only reaches to 
 the commencement of the Protectorate. I think 
 
 78 
 
he means to spin it out to his life's thread. Have 
 you seen Fearn's Anti-Tooke? I am no judge of 
 such things — you are ; but I think it very clever 
 indeed. If I knew your bookseller, I 'd order it 
 for you at a venture : 't is two octavos, Longman 
 and Co. Or do you read now ? Tell it not in 
 the Admiralty Court, but my head aches hesterno 
 vino. I can scarce pump up words, much less 
 ideas, congruous to be sent so far. But your son 
 must have this by to-night's post. I am sorry to 
 say that he does not conduct himself so well as 
 we could wish. He absented himself four days 
 this week (this is Tuesday) from the Charter 
 House, and was found tippling at an obscure 
 public house at Barnet with a chorus singer of 
 the Coburg Theatre. Mr. Hine and I with diffi- 
 culty got him away ; but Doctor Raine, the 
 head-master, hushed it up with a slight imposi- 
 tion — viz: the translation of Gray's Elegy into 
 Greek elegiacs — which I partly did for him. 
 I write this with reluctance to offend the feel- 
 ings of a father. I might a' been one if * * * * * 
 had let me. 
 
 Manning is gone to Rome, Naples, &c, prob- 
 ably to touch at Sicily, Malta, Guernsey, &c; 
 but I don't know the map. Hazlitt is resident 
 at Paris, whence he pours his lampoons in safety 
 at his friends in England. He has his boy with 
 him. 
 
 I am teaching Emma Latin. By the time you 
 can answer this, she will be qualified to instruct 
 
 79 
 
young ladies : she is a capital English reader: and 
 S. T. C. acknowledges that part of a passage in 
 Milton she read better than he, and part he read 
 best, her part being the shorter. But, seriously, 
 
 if Lady St (oblivious pen, that was about to 
 
 write Mrs. /) could hear of such a young person 
 wanted (she smatters of French, some Italian, 
 music of course), we 'd send our loves by her. 
 My congratulations and assurances of old esteem. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 DXXV1. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 August 10, 1827. 
 
 My dear Hone, — We are both excessively 
 grieved at dear Matilda's illness, whom we have 
 ever regarded with the greater respect. Pray 
 God, your next news, which we shall expect 
 most anxiously, shall give hopes of her recov- 
 ery. 
 
 Mary keeps her health very well, and joins in 
 kind remembrances and best wishes. 
 
 A few more numbers (about seven) will 
 empty my Extract Book ; then we will consult 
 about the Specimens. By then, I hope you will 
 be able to talk about business. How you con- 
 tinue your book at all, and so well, in trying 
 circumstances, I know not. But don't let it stop. 
 Would to God I could help you ! — but we 
 have the house full of company, which we came 
 to avoid. — God bless you. C. L. 
 
 80 
 
DXXVII.— TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 August 10, 1827. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I have not been able to answer 
 you, for we have had, and are having (I just 
 snatch a moment), our poor quiet retreat, to 
 which we fled from society, full of company, 
 some staying with us, and this moment as I 
 write almost a heavy importation of two old 
 ladies has come in. Whither can I take wing 
 from the oppression of human faces ? Would 
 I were in a wilderness of apes, tossing cocoa-nuts 
 about, grinning and grinned at ! 
 
 Mitford was hoaxing you surely about my 
 engraving ; 't is a little sixpenny thing, too like 
 by half, in which the draughtsman has done his 
 best to avoid flattery. There have been two 
 editions of it, which I think are all gone, as 
 they have vanish' d from the window where they 
 hung, a print-shop, corner of Great and Little 
 Queen Streets, Lincoln's Inn Fields, where any 
 London friend of yours may inquire for it ; for 
 I am (tho' you won't understand it) at Enfield 
 (Mrs. Leishman's, Chase). We have been here 
 near three months, and shall stay two or more, 
 if people will let us alone, but they persecute us 
 from village to village. So don't direct to Isling- 
 ton again, till further notice. 
 
 I am trying my hand at a drama, in two acts, 
 founded on Crabbe's Confidant, mutatis mutandis. 
 
 You like the Odyssey. Did you ever read my 
 
 81 
 
Adventures of Ulysses, founded on Chapman's old 
 translation of it ? For children or men, Chapman 
 is divine, and my abridgment has not quite 
 emptied him of his divinity. When you come 
 to town I '11 show it you. 
 
 You have well described your old-fashioned 
 Grand-paternal Hall. Is it not odd that every 
 one's earliest recollections are of some such 
 place? I had my Blakesware (Blakesmoor in 
 the London). Nothing fills a child's mind like 
 a large old mansion [one or two words wafered 
 over] ; better if un-or-partially-occupied ; peo- 
 pled with the spirits of deceased members of the 
 County and Justices of the Quorum. Would 
 I were buried in the peopled solitude of one, 
 with my feelings at seven years old. 
 
 Those marble busts of the Emperors, they 
 seem'd as if they were to stand forever, as they 
 had stood from the living days of Rome, in that 
 old marble hall, and I to partake of their per- 
 manency ; Eternity was, while I thought not of 
 Time. But he thought of me, and they are 
 toppled down, and corn covers the spot of 
 the noble old dwelling and its princely gardens. 
 I feel like a grasshopper that chirping about 
 the grounds escaped his scythe only by my 
 littleness. Ev'n now he is whetting one of his 
 smallest razors to clean wipe me out, perhaps. 
 Well! 
 
 82 
 
DXXVIIL — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 August 28, 1827. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I am thankful to you for your 
 ready compliance with my wishes. Emma is 
 delighted with your verses, to which I have 
 appended this notice " The 6 th line refers to 
 the child of a dear friend of the author's, named 
 Emma," without which it must be obscure ; and 
 have sent it with four album poems of my own 
 (your daughter's with your heading, requesting 
 it a place next mine) to a Mr. Fraser, who is to 
 be editor of a more superb pocket-book than 
 has yet appeared by far ! the property of some 
 wealthy booksellers, but whom, or what its 
 name, I forgot to ask. It is actually to have in 
 it schoolboy exercises by his present Majesty and 
 the late Duke of York, so Lucy will come to 
 Court ; how she will be stared at ! Wordsworth 
 is named as a contributor. Frazer, whom I have 
 slightly seen, is editor of a forth-come or com- 
 ing Review of foreign books, and is intimately 
 connected with Lockhart, &c, so I take it that 
 this is a concern of Murray's. Walter Scott also 
 contributes mainly. I have stood off a long time 
 from these annuals, which are ostentatious trump- 
 ery, but could not withstand the request of Jame- 
 son, a particular friend of mine and Coleridge. 
 
 I shall hate myself in frippery, strutting along, 
 and vying finery with beaux and belles, — 
 
 with " Future Lord Byrons and sweet L. E. L.'s." 
 83 
 
Your taste I see is less simple than mine, which 
 the difference of our persuasions has doubtless 
 effected. In fact, of late you have so frenchify'd 
 your style, larding it with hors de combats, and 
 au desopoirs, that o' my conscience the Foxian 
 blood is quite dried out of you, and the skipping 
 Monsieur spirit has been infused. Doth Lucy 
 go to balls ? I must remodel my lines, which I 
 write for her. I hope A. K. keeps to her Prim- 
 itives. If you have anything you'd like to send 
 further, I don't know Frazer's address, but I 
 sent mine thro' Mr. Jameson, 1 9 or 90 Cheyne 
 Street, Totnam Court road. I dare say an hon- 
 ourable place wou'd be given to them ; but I 
 have not heard from Frazer since I sent mine, 
 nor shall probably again, and therefore I do not 
 solicit it as from him. 
 
 Yesterday I sent off my tragi-comedy to 
 Mr. Kemble. Wish it luck. I made it all ('t is 
 blank verse, and I think, of the true old dra- 
 matic cut) or most of it, in the green lanes about 
 Enfield, where I am and mean to remain, in 
 spite of your peremptory doubts on that head. 
 
 Your refusal to lend your poetical sanction to 
 my Icon, and your reasons to Evans, are most 
 sensible. Maybe I may hit on a line or two of 
 my own jocular. Maybe not. 
 
 Do you never Londonize again ? I should like 
 to talk over old poetry with you, of which I 
 have much, and you I think little. Do your 
 Drummonds allow no holydays ? I would will- 
 
 84 
 
ingly come and work for you a three weeks or 
 so, to let you loose. Would I could sell or give 
 you some of my leisure ! Positively, the best 
 thing a man can have to do is nothing, and next 
 to that perhaps — good works. 
 
 I am but poorlyish, and feel myself writing a 
 dull letter ; poorlyish from company, not gener- 
 ally, for I never was better, nor took more walks, 
 
 — fourteen miles a day on an average, with a 
 sporting dog — Dash — you would not know 
 the plain poet, any more than he doth recognize 
 James Nay lor trick' d out au deserpoy (how do 
 you spell it). 
 
 En passant, J'aime entendre da mon bon homme 
 sur surveillance de croix, ma pas V homme figuratif 
 
 — do you understand me ? 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 I have left a place for a wafer, but can't find 
 it again. 
 
 DXXIX. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 September 2, 1827. 
 
 Dear Hone, — By the verses in yesterday's 
 Table Book sign'd *, I judge you are going on 
 better ; but / want to be resolv'd. Allsop promised 
 to call on you, and let me know, but has not. 
 Pray attend to this ; and send me the number 
 before the present (pages 225 to 256), which 
 my newsman has neglected. Your book im- 
 
 85 
 
proves every week. I have written here a thing 
 in two acts, and sent it to Covent Garden. 
 
 Yours, C. Lamb 
 
 DXXX. — TO P. G. PATMORE 
 
 September, 1827. 
 
 Dear Patmore, — Excuse my anxiety — but how 
 is Dash ? (I should have asked if Mrs. Patmore 
 kept her rules, and was improving — but Dash 
 came uppermost. The order of our thoughts 
 should be the order of our writing.) Goes he 
 muzzled, or aperto ore ? Are his intellects sound, 
 or does he wander a little in his conversation ? 
 You cannot be too careful to watch the first 
 symptoms of incoherence. The first illogical 
 snarl he makes, to St. Luke's with him ! All 
 the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the 
 overseers ; but I protest they seem to me very 
 rational and collected. But nothing is so de- 
 ceitful as mad people to those who are not used 
 to them. Try him with hot water. If he won't 
 lick it up, it is a sign he does not like it. Does 
 his tail wag horizontally or perpendicularly ? 
 That has decided the fate of many dogs in Enfield. 
 Is his general deportment cheerful ? I mean when 
 he is pleased — for otherwise there is no judging. 
 You can't be too careful. Has he bit any of the 
 children yet ? If he has, have them shot, and 
 keep him for curiosity, to see if it was the hydro- 
 phobia. They say all our army in India had it 
 
 86 
 
at one time — but that was in Hyder- Ally's time. 
 Do you get paunch for him ? Take care the 
 sheep was sane. You might pull out his teeth (if 
 he would let you), and then you need not mind 
 if he were as mad as a Bedlamite. It would be 
 rather fun to see his odd ways. It might amuse 
 Mrs. Patmore and the children. They 'd have 
 more sense than he ! He 'd be like -a fool kept in 
 the family, to keep the household in good humour 
 with their own understanding. You might teach 
 him the mad dance set to the mad howl. Madge 
 Owl-et would be nothing to him. "My, how he 
 capers ! " [In the margin is written:] One of the 
 children speaks this. 
 
 [Three lines here are erased?^ What I scratch 
 out is a German quotation from Lessing on the 
 bite of rabid animals ; but, I remember, you don't 
 read German. But Mrs. Patmore may, so I wish 
 I had let it stand. The meaning in English is, 
 " Avoid to approach an animal suspected of mad- 
 ness, as you would avoid fire or a precipice," 
 which I think is a sensible observation. The 
 Germans are certainly profounder than we. 
 
 If the slightest suspicion arises in your breast 
 that all is not right with him (Dash), muzzle 
 him, and lead him in a string (common pack- 
 thread will do ; he don't care for twist) to Hood's, 
 his quondam master, and he '11 take him in at any 
 time. You may mention your suspicion or not, 
 as you like, or as you think it may wound or not 
 Mr. H.'s feelings. Hood, I know, will wink at a 
 
 87 
 
few follies in Dash, in consideration of his former 
 sense. Besides, Hood is deaf, and if you hinted 
 anything, ten to one he would not hear you. Be- 
 sides, you will have discharged your conscience, 
 and laid the child at the right door, as they say. 
 
 We are dawdling our time away very idly and 
 pleasantly, at a Mrs. Leishman's, Chace, Enfield, 
 where, if you come a-hunting, we can give you 
 cold meat and a tankard. Her husband is a 
 tailor ; but that, you know, does not make her 
 one. I knew a jailor (which rhymes), but his 
 wife was a fine lady. 
 
 Let us hear from you respecting Mrs. Pat- 
 
 more's regimen. I send my love in a to 
 
 Dash. C. Lamb 
 
 [On the outside of the letter was written:} 
 
 Seriously, I wish you would call upon Hood 
 when you are that way. He 's a capital fellow. 
 I sent him a couple of poems — one ordered by 
 his wife, and written to order ; and 't is a week 
 since, and I 've not heard from him. I fear some- 
 thing is the matter. 
 
 Omitted within : 
 
 Our kindest remembrance to Mrs. P. 
 
 DXXXI. — TO JOHN BATES D1BDIN 
 
 September 5, 1827. 
 
 Dear Dib, — Emma Isola, who is with us, has 
 opened an album : bring some verses with you 
 
 88 
 
for it on Saturday evening. Any fun will do. I 
 am teaching her Latin ; you may make some- 
 thing of that. Don't be modest. For in it you 
 shall appear, if I rummage out some of your old 
 pleasant letters for rhymes. But an original is 
 better. 
 
 Has your pa — the infantile word for father 
 — any scrap ? C. L. 
 
 We shall be most glad to see your sister or 
 sisters with you. Can't you contrive it ? Write 
 in that case. 
 
 DXXXII. — TO JOHN BATES DIBDIN 
 
 September 13, 1827. 
 
 Dear "John, — Your verses are very pleasant, 
 and have been adopted into the splendid Emmatic 
 constellation, where they are not of the least mag- 
 nitude. She is delighted with their merit and 
 readiness. They are just the thing. The 14th 
 line is found. We advertised it. Hell is cooling 
 for want of company. We shall make it up along 
 with our kitchen fire to roast you into our new 
 house, where I hope you will find us in a few 
 Sundays. We have actually taken it, and a com- 
 pact thing it will be. 
 
 Kemble does not return till the month's end. 
 My heart sometimes is good, sometimes bad, 
 about it, as the day turns out wet or walky. 
 
 Emma has just died, choak'd with a gerund in 
 
 89 
 
dum. On opening her we found a participle in 
 rus in the pericordium. The king never dies, 
 which may be the reason that it always reigns 
 here. We join in loves. 
 
 C. L., his orthograph 
 
 What a pen ! 
 
 The umbrella is cum bak. 
 
 DXXXIII. — TO JOHN BATES DIBDIN 
 
 September 18, 1827. 
 
 My dear, and now more so, "John, — How that 
 name smacks ! what an honest, full, English, 
 and yet withal holy and apostolic sound it bears, 
 above the methodistical priggish bishoppy name 
 of Timothy, under which I had obscured your 
 merits ! 
 
 What I think of the paternal verses, you shall 
 read within, which I assure you is not pen praise 
 but heart praise. It is the gem of the Dibdin 
 Muses. 
 
 I have got all my books into my new house, 
 and their readers in a fortnight will follow, to 
 whose joint converse nobody shall be more 
 welcome than you, and any of yours. The house 
 is perfection to our use and comfort. 
 
 Milton is come. I wish Wordsworth were 
 here to meet him. The next importation is of 
 pots and saucepans, window curtains, crockery 
 and such base ware. The pleasure of moving, 
 when Becky moves for you. O the moving 
 
 90 
 

 Becky ! I hope you will come and warm the 
 house with the first. 
 
 From my temporary domicile, Enfield, 
 
 Eli a, that "is to go" 
 
 DXXXIV. — TO THOMAS HOOD 
 
 September 18, 1827. 
 
 Dear Hood, — If I have anything in my head, 
 
 I will send it to Mr. Watts. Strictly speaking 
 
 he should have had my album-verses, but a very 
 
 intimate friend importun'd me for the trifles, and 
 
 I believe I forgot Mr. Watts, or lost sight at the 
 
 time of his similar souvenir. Jamieson conveyed 
 
 the farce from me to Mrs. C. Kemble ; he will 
 
 not be in town before the 27th. Give our kind 
 
 loves to all at Highgate, and tell them that we 
 
 have finally torn ourselves out right away from 
 
 Colebrooke, where I had no health, and are about 
 
 to domiciliate for good at Enfield, where I have 
 
 experienced good. 
 
 Lord, what good hours do we keep ! 
 How quietly we sleep ! 
 
 See the rest in the Complete Angler. We have 
 got our books into our new house. I am a dray- 
 horse if I was not asham'd of the indigested 
 dirty lumber, as I toppled 'em out of the cart, 
 and blest Becky that came with 'em for her 
 having an unstufF'd brain with such rubbish. 
 We shall get in by Michael's mass. 'T was with 
 some pain we were evuls'd from Colebrook. 
 
 91 
 
You may find some of our flesh sticking to the 
 door-posts. To change habitations is to die to 
 them, and in my time I have died seven deaths. 
 But I don't know whether every such change 
 does not bring with it a rejuvenescence. 'Tis an 
 enterprise, and shoves back the sense of death's 
 approximating, which, tho' not terrible to me, 
 is at all times particularly distasteful. My house- 
 deaths have generally been periodical, recurring 
 after seven years, but this last is premature by 
 half that time. Cut off in the flower of Cole- 
 brook. The Middletonian stream and all its 
 echoes mourn. Even minnows dwindle. A par- 
 vis jiunt minimi. 
 
 I fear to invite Mrs. Hood to our new man- 
 sion, lest she envy it, and hate us. But when we 
 are fairly in, I hope she will come and try it. 
 I heard she and you were made uncomfortable 
 by some unworthy-to-be-cared-for attacks, and 
 have tried to set up a feeble counteraction thro' 
 the Table Book of last Saturday. Has it not reach'd 
 you, that you are silent about it ? Our new domi- 
 cile is no manor-house, but new, and externally 
 not inviting, but furnish'd within with every 
 convenience. Capital new locks to every door, 
 capital grates in every room, with nothing to 
 pay for incoming; and the rent £10 less than 
 the Islington one. It was built a few years since 
 at ^noo expence, they tell me, and I perfectly 
 believe it. And I get it for j[^5 exclusive of 
 moderate taxes. We think ourselves most lucky. 
 
 92 
 
It is not our intention to abandon Regent Street 
 and West End perambulations (monastic and ter- 
 rible thought!) but occasionally to breathe the 
 fresher air of the metropolis. We shall put up 
 a bedroom or two (all we want) for occasional 
 ex-rustication, where we shall visit, not be vis- 
 ited. Plays too we '11 see, — perhaps our own. 
 Urbani Sylvani and Sylvan Urbanuses in turns. 
 Courtiers for a spurt, then philosophers. Old 
 homely tell-truths and learn-truths in the virtu- 
 ous shades of Enfield, liars again and mocking 
 gibers in the coffee-houses and resorts of London. 
 What can a mortal desire more for his bi-parted 
 nature ? 
 
 O the curds — and — cream you shall eat with 
 us here ! 
 
 O the turtle-soup and lobster-salads we shall 
 devour with you there ! 
 
 O the old books we shall peruse here ! 
 
 O the new nonsense we shall trifle over there ! 
 
 O Sir T. Browne, here ! 
 
 O Mr. Hood and Mr. Jerdan, there ! 
 Thine, C(urbanus) L(syfoanus) (Eli A ambo) 
 
 Inclos'd are verses which Emma sat down to 
 write, her first, on the eve after your departure. 
 Of course they are only for Mrs. H.'s perusal. 
 They will shew at least, that one of our party is 
 not willing to cut old friends. What to call 'em 
 I don't know. Blank verse they are not, because 
 of the rhymes — rhymes they are not, because of 
 
 93 
 
the blank verse. Heroics they are not, because 
 they are lyric — lyric they are not, because of the 
 heroic measure. They must be call'd Etnmaics. 
 
 DXXXV. — TO HENRY COLBURN 
 
 September 25, 1827. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I beg leave, in the warmest manner, 
 to recommend to your notice, Mr. Moxon, the 
 bearer of this, if by any chance yourself should 
 want a steady hand in your business, or know of 
 any publisher that may want such a one. He is 
 at present in the house of Messrs. Longman & 
 Co., where he has been established for more than 
 six years, and has the conduct of one of the four 
 departments of the country line. A difference 
 respecting salary, which he expected to be a little 
 raised on his last promotion, makes him wish to 
 try to better himself. I believe him to be a young 
 man of the highest integrity, and a thorough 
 man of business ; and should not have taken 
 the liberty of recommending him, if I had not 
 thought him capable of being highly useful. 
 
 I am, Sir, with great respect, 
 Your humble servant, Charles Lamb 
 
 DXXXVI. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 September 25, 1827. 
 
 Dear Allsop, — Your kindness pursues us ev- 
 erywhere. That 81.4.6. is a substantial proof, 
 
 94 
 
I think ; I never should have ask'd for it. Pray 
 keep it, when you get it, till we see each other. 
 I have plenty of current cash ; thank you over 
 and over for your offer. 
 
 We came down on Monday with Miss James. 
 The first night I lay broad awake like an owl 
 till eight o'clock, then got a poor doze. Have 
 had something like sleep and a forgetting last 
 night. We go on tolerably in this deserted house. 
 It is melancholy, but I could not have gone into 
 a quite strange one. 
 
 Newspapers come to you here. Pray stop 
 them. Shall I send what have come ? 
 
 Give mine and Mary's kindest love to Mrs. 
 Allsop, with every good wish to Elizabeth and 
 Rob. This house is not what it was. May we 
 all meet chearful some day soon. 
 
 Yours gratefully and sincerely, C. Lamb 
 
 How long a letter have I written with my own 
 hand. 
 
 Jane says she has sent a cradle yesterday morn- 
 ing ; she does for us very well. 
 
 DXXXVII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 September 26, 1827. 
 
 Dear M., — Our pleasant meetings for some 
 time are suspended. My sister was taken very ill in 
 a few hours after you left us (I had suspected it), — 
 and I must wait eight or nine weeks in slow hope 
 
 95 
 
of her recovery. It is her old complaint. You 
 will say as much to the Hoods, and to Mrs. Love- 
 kin, and Mrs. Hazlitt, with my kind love. 
 
 We are in the house, that is all. I hope one 
 day we shall both enjoy it, and see our friends 
 again. But till then I must be a solitary nurse. 
 
 I am trying Becky's sister to be with her, so 
 don't say anything to Miss James \wbo was Mary 
 Lamb's regular nurse\. 
 
 Yours truly, Ch. Lamb 
 
 Monday. Pray, send me the Table Book. I will 
 send your books soon. 
 
 DXXXVIII.— TO HENRY C. ROBINSON 
 
 October i, 1827. 
 
 Dear R., — I am settled for life I hope, at 
 Enfield. I have taken the prettiest, compactest 
 house I ever saw, near to Antony Robinson's, but 
 alas ! at the expence of poor Mary, who was taken 
 ill of her old complaint the night before we got 
 into it. So I must suspend the pleasure I expected 
 in the surprise you would have had in coming 
 down and finding us householders. 
 
 Farewell, till we can all meet comfortable. 
 Pray, apprise Martin Burney. Him I longed to 
 have seen with you, but our house is too small 
 to meet either of you without her knowledge. 
 
 God bless you. C. Lamb 
 
 96 
 
DXXXIX. — TO JOHN BATES DIBDIN 
 
 October 2, 1827. 
 
 My dear Dibdin, — It gives me great pain to 
 have to say that I cannot have the pleasure of 
 seeing you for some time. We are in our house, 
 but Mary has been seized with one of her peri- 
 odical disorders — a temporary derangement — 
 which commonly lasts for two months. You 
 shall have the first notice of her convalescence. 
 Can you not send your manuscript by the coach ? 
 directed to Chase Side, next to Mr. Westwood's 
 Insurance Office. I will take great care of it. 
 Yours most truly, C. Lamb 
 
 DXL. — TO BARRON FIELD 
 
 October 4, 1827. 
 
 I am not in humour to return a fit reply to 
 your pleasant letter. We are fairly housed at 
 Enfield, and an angel shall not persuade me to 
 wicked London again. We have now six sabbath- 
 days in a week for — none ! The change has 
 worked on my sister's mind, to make her ill ; and 
 I must wait a tedious time before we can hope to 
 enjoy this place in unison. Enjoy it, when she 
 recovers, I know we shall. I see no shadow, but 
 in her illness, for repenting the step ! 
 
 For Mathews — I know my own utter unfitness 
 for such a task. I am no hand at describing cos- 
 tumes, a great requisite in an account of man- 
 
 97 
 
nered pictures. I have not the slightest acquaint- 
 ance with pictorial language even. An imitator 
 of me, or rather pretender to be me, in his Re- 
 jected Articles, has made me minutely describe 
 the dresses of the poissardes at Calais ! — I could 
 as soon resolve Euclid. I have no eye for forms 
 and fashions. I substitute analysis, and get rid 
 of the phenomenon by slurring in for it its im- 
 pression. I am sure you must have observed 
 this defect, or peculiarity, in my writings ; else 
 the delight would be incalculable in doing such 
 a thing for Mathews, whom I greatly like — and 
 Mrs. Mathews, whom I almost greatlier like. 
 What a feast 't would be to be sitting at the pic- 
 tures painting 'em into words; but I could al- 
 most as soon make words into pictures. I speak 
 this deliberately, and not out of modesty. I pretty 
 well know what I can't do. 
 
 My sister's verses are homely, but just what 
 they should be ; I send them, not for the poetry, 
 but the good sense and good will of them. I was 
 beginning to transcribe ; but Emma is sadly jeal- 
 ous of its getting into more hands, and I won't 
 spoil it in her eyes by divulging it. Come to 
 Enfield, and read it. As my poor cousin, the book- 
 binder, now with God, told me, most sentiment- 
 ally, that having purchased a picture of fish at 
 a dead man's sale, his heart ached to see how the 
 widow grieved to part with it, being her dear 
 husband's favourite ; and he almost apologised 
 for his generosity by saying he could not help 
 
 98 
 
telling the widow she was "welcome to come 
 and look at it" — e. g. at his house — "as often 
 as she pleased." There was the germ of gener- 
 osity in an uneducated mind. He had just reading 
 enough from the backs of books for the " nee 
 sink esse feros " — had he read inside, the same 
 impulse would have led him to give back the 
 two-guinea thing — with a request to see it, now 
 and then, at her house. We are parroted into 
 delicacy. Thus you have a tale for a sonnet. 
 Adieu! with (imagine both) our loves. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 DXLI. — TO H. DODWELL 
 
 October 7, 1827. 
 
 Let us meet if possible when you hobble to 
 town. Enfield Chase, nearly opposite to the first 
 chapel ; or better to define it, east side opposite 
 a white house in which a Mrs. Vaughan (in ill 
 health) still resides. 
 
 My dear Dodwell, — Your little pig found 
 his way to Enfield this morning without his 
 feet, or rather his little feet came first, and as 
 I guessed the rest of him soon followed. He 
 is quite a beauty. It was a pity to kill him, 
 or rather, as Rice would say, it would have been 
 a pity not to kill him in his state of innocence. 
 He might have lived to be corrupted by the 
 ways of the world, and for all his delicate 
 
 99 
 
promise have turned out, like an old tea broker 
 you and I remember, a lump of fat rusty Bacon. 
 Bacon was a beast, my friend at Calne, Marsh, 
 used to say — or was it Bendry ? A rasher of the 
 latter still hangs up in Leadenhall. Your kind 
 letter has left a relish upon my taste ; it read 
 warm and short as to-morrow's crackling. 
 
 I am not quite so comfortable at home yet as 
 I should be else in the neatest, compactest house 
 I ever got — a perfect God-send ; but for some 
 weeks I must enjoy it alone. She always comes 
 round again. It is a house of a few years' stand- 
 ing, built (for its size with every convenience) 
 by an old humourist for himself, which he tired 
 of as soon as he got warm in it. Grates, locks, 
 a pump, convenience indescribable, and cheap as 
 if it had been old and craved repairs. For me, 
 who always take the first thing that offers, how 
 lucky that the best should first offer itself! My 
 books, my prints are up, and I seem (so like this 
 room I write in is to a room there) to have 
 come here transported in the night, like Gul- 
 liver in his flying house ; and to add to the 
 deception, the New River has come down from 
 Islington with me. 'Twas what I wished — to 
 move my house, and I have realised it. Only in- 
 stead of company seven nights in the week, I see 
 my friends on the first day of it, and enjoy six 
 real Sabbaths. The Museum is a loss, but I am 
 not so far but I can visit it occasionally; and 
 I have exhausted the plays there. 
 
 ioo 
 
" Indisputably I shall allow no sage and onion 
 to be cramm'd into the throat of so tender 
 a suckling. 
 
 " Bread and milk with some odoriferous mint, 
 and the liveret minced. 
 
 " Come and tell me when he cries, that I 
 may catch his little eyes. 
 
 " And do it nice and crips." (That 's the 
 cook's word.) You '11 excuse me, I have been 
 only speaking to Becky about the dinner to- 
 morrow. After it, a glass of seldom-drunk wine 
 to my friend Dodwell, and, if he will give 
 a stranger leave, to Mrs. Dodwell: then to the 
 memory of the last, and of the last but one, 
 learned Dodwell, of whom, but not whom, I have 
 read so much. The next to the " Outward and 
 Homeward bound ships " — and, if the bottle 
 lasts, to the Chairman, Deputy-Chairman, the 
 Court of Directors, the Secretary, the Treasurer, 
 and Accomptant-General, of the East India 
 Company, with a blunt bumper at parting to 
 
 P . All I can do, I cannot make P 
 
 look like a G n, yet he is portly, majestic, 
 
 hath his nods, his condescensions, his variety of 
 behaviour to suit your Director, your Upper 
 Clerk, your Ryles, and your Winfields ; he 
 tempers mirth with gravity, gives no affront, and 
 expects to receive none, is honourable, man- 
 nered, of good bearing, looks like a man who, 
 accustomed to respect others, silently extorts 
 respect from them, has it as a sort of in course ; 
 
 IOI 
 
without claiming it, finds it. What do I miss in 
 him, then, of the essentials of gentlemanhood ? 
 He is right sterling — but then, somehow, he 
 
 always has that d d large Goldsmith's Hall 
 
 mark staring upon him. Possibly he is too fat 
 for a gentleman — then I think of Charles Fox 
 in the Dropsy ; and the burly old Duke of Nor- 
 folk, a nobleman, every stun of him ! 
 
 I am afraid now you and are gone, 
 
 there 's scarce an officer in the Civil Service 
 quite comes up to my notion of a gentleman. 
 D certainly does not, nor his friend B . 
 
 C bobs. K curtsies. W bows 
 
 like the son of a citizen ; F like a village 
 
 apothecary ; C like the Squire's younger 
 
 Brother ; R like a crocodile on his hind 
 
 legs ; H never bows at all — at least to me. 
 
 S spulters and stutters. W halters and 
 
 smatters. R is a coal-heaver. Wolf wants 
 
 my clothing. C simmers, but never boils 
 
 over. D is a butterfirkin, salt butter. C , 
 
 a pepper-box, cayenne. For A , E , 
 
 and O , I can answer that they have not the 
 
 slightest pretensions to anything but rusticity. 
 Marry, the remaining vowels had something of 
 civility about them. Can you make top or tail 
 of this nonsense, or tell where it begins ? I will 
 page it. How an error in the outset infects to 
 the end of life, or of a sheet of paper ! 
 
 Cordially adieu. C. Lamb 
 
 102 
 
DXLII. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 October, 1827. 
 
 Dear H., — May I trouble your kindness (a 
 pretty phrase and new) to transmit for me the 
 accompanying farce (which I leave open for 
 your amusement) to Terry, with the enclosed, at 
 the Adelphi; or his own house, if it can be 
 there learned, and is not far distant, still better. 
 I have no messenger, and am crippled for going 
 so far. The letter must go with it. I return, 
 with the farce, three books. Pick out the cob- 
 bler. Yours, "every day," C. L. 
 
 DXLIII.— TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 October, 1827. 
 
 Dear Hone, — Having occasion to write to 
 Clarke I put in a bit to you. I see no Extracts 
 in this Number. You should have three sets in 
 hand, one long one in particular from Atreus and 
 Thyestes, terribly fine. Don't spare 'em ; with 
 fragments, divided as you please, they '11 hold 
 out to Xmas. What I have to say is enjoined me 
 most seriously to say to you by Moxon. Their 
 country customers grieve at getting the Table 
 Book so late. It is indispensable it should appear 
 on Friday. Do it but once, and you '11 never 
 know the difference. 
 
 FABLE 
 
 A boy at my school, a cunning fox, for one 
 103 
 
penny ensured himself a hot roll and butter every 
 morning for ever. Some favour'd ones were 
 allowed a roll and butter to their breakfasts. 
 He had none. But he bought one one morn- 
 ing. What did he do? He did not eat it, but 
 cutting it in two, sold each one of the halves to 
 a half-breakfasted Blue Boy for his whole roll 
 to-morrow. The next day he had a whole roll 
 to eat, and two halves to swap with other two 
 boys, who had eat their cake and were still 
 not satiated, for whole ones to-morrow. So on 
 ad infinitum. By one morning's abstinence he 
 feasted seven years after. 
 
 APPLICATION 
 
 Bring out the next Number on Friday, for 
 country correspondents' sake. It will be one piece 
 of exertion, and you will go right ever after, for 
 you will have just the time you had before, to 
 bring it out ever after by the Friday. 
 
 You don't know the difference in getting a 
 thing early. Your correspondents are your au- 
 thors. You don't know how an author frets to 
 know the world has got his contribution, when 
 he finds it not on his breakfast table. 
 
 Once in this case is ever without a grain of 
 trouble afterwards. 
 
 I won't like you or speak to you if you don't 
 try it once. 
 
 Yours, on that condition, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 104 
 
DXLIV.— TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 October, 1827. 
 
 Dear Hone, — I was most sensibly gratified 
 by receiving the Table Book on Friday evening 
 at Enfield ! 
 
 Thank you. In haste. Don't spare the Ex- 
 tracts. They'll eke out till Christmas. How is 
 your daughter ? C. L. 
 
 DXLV. — TO THOMAS HOOD 
 
 1827. 
 
 Dear H., — Emma has a favour, besides a bed, 
 to ask of Mrs. Hood. Your parcel was gratify- 
 ing. We have all been pleased with Mrs. Leslie ; 
 I speak it most sincerely. There is much manly 
 sense with a feminine expression, which is my 
 definition of ladies' writing. 
 
 DXLVL — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 Late, 1827. 
 
 My dear B. B., — You will understand my 
 silence when I tell you that my sister, on the 
 very eve of entering into a new house we have 
 taken at Enfield, was surprised with an attack of 
 one of her sad long illnesses, which deprive me 
 of her society, tho' not of her domestication, for 
 eight or nine weeks together. I see her, but it 
 does her no good. But for this, we have the snug- 
 
 i°5 
 
gest, most comfortable house, with everything 
 most compact and desirable. Colebrook is a wil- 
 derness. The books, prints, &c, are come here, 
 and the New River came down with us. The 
 familiar prints, the Bust, the Milton, seem scarce 
 to have changed their rooms. One of her last 
 observations was " how frightfully like this room 
 is to our room in Islington " — our up-stairs room, 
 she meant. How I hope you will come some 
 better day, and judge of it ! We have tried quiet 
 here for four months, and I will answer for the 
 comfort of it enduring. 
 
 On emptying my bookshelves I found an Ulysses, 
 which I will send to A. K. when I go to town, 
 for her acceptance — unless the book be out of 
 print. One likes to have one copy of everything 
 one does. I neglected to keep one of Poetry for 
 Children, the joint production of Mary and me, 
 and it is not to be had for love or money. It had 
 in the title-page " by the author of Mrs. Lester's 
 School." Know you any one that has it, and 
 would exchange it ? 
 
 Strolling to Waltham Cross the other day, I 
 hit off these lines. It is one of the crosses which 
 Edward I. caused to be built for his wife at every 
 town where her corpse rested between North- 
 amptonshire and London. 
 
 A stately cross each sad spot doth attest, 
 Whereat the corpse of Elinor did rest, 
 From Herdby fetch'd — her spouse so honour'd her — 
 To sleep with royal dust at Westminster. 
 1 06 
 
And, if less pompous obsequies were thine, 
 Duke Brunswick's daughter, princely Caroline, 
 Grudge not, great ghost, nor count thy funeral losses : 
 Thou in thy lifetime hadst thy share of crosses. 
 
 My dear B. B., — My head akes with this 
 little excursion. Pray accept two sides for three 
 for once. And believe me, yours sadly, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 DXLVII. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 December 4, 1827. 
 
 My dear B. B., — I have scarce spirits to write, 
 yet am harass'd with not writing. Nine weeks 
 are completed, and Mary does not get any better. 
 It is perfectly exhausting. Enfield and everything 
 is very gloomy. But for long experience, I should 
 fear her ever getting well. 
 
 I feel most thankful for the spinsterly atten- 
 tions of your sister. Thank the kind " knitter in 
 the sun." 
 
 What nonsense seems verse, when one is seri- 
 ously out of hope and spirits ! I mean that at 
 this time I have some nonsense to write, pain of 
 incivility. Would to the fifth heaven no cox- 
 combess had invented albums. 
 
 I have not had a Bijoux, nor the slightest no- 
 tice from Pickering about omitting four out of 
 five of my things. The best thing is never to hear 
 of such a thing as a bookseller again, or to think 
 there are publishers : second hand stationers and 
 
 107 
 
old book-stalls for me. Authorship should be an 
 idea of the past. 
 
 Old kings, old bishops, are venerable. All 
 present is hollow. 
 
 I cannot make a letter. I have no straw, not 
 a pennyworth of chaff, only this may stop your 
 kind importunity to know about us. 
 
 Here is a comfortable house, but no tenants. 
 One does not make a household. 
 
 Do not think I am quite in despair, but in 
 addition to hope protracted, I have a stupifying 
 cold and obstructing headache, and the sun is 
 dead. 
 
 I will not fail to apprise you of the revival 
 of a beam. 
 
 Meantime accept this, rather than think I have 
 forgotten you all. 
 
 Best remembrances. 
 
 Yours and theirs truly, C. L. 
 
 DXLVIII. — TO LEIGH HUNT 
 
 December, 1827. 
 
 Dear H., — I am here almost in the eleventh 
 week of the longest illness my sister ever had, 
 and no symptoms of amendment. Some had 
 begun, but relapsed with a change of nurse. If 
 she ever gets well, you will like my house, and 
 I shall be happy to show you Enfield country. 
 
 As to my head, it is perfectly at your or 
 any one's service ; either Meyers' or Hazlitt's 
 
 108 
 
[portrait], which last (done fifteen or twenty 
 years since) White, of the Accountant's office, 
 India House, has ; he lives in Kentish Town : 
 I forget where, but is to be found in Leadenhall 
 daily. Take your choice. I should be proud 
 to hang up as an alehouse-sign even ; or, rather, 
 I care not about my head or anything, but how 
 we are to get well again, for I am tired out. 
 
 God bless vou and yours from the worst ca- 
 lamity. Yours truly, C. L. 
 
 Kindest remembrances to Mrs. Hunt. H.'s 
 is in a queer dress. M.'s would be preferable 
 ad populum. 
 
 DXLIX. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 December 15, 1827. 
 
 My dear Hone, — I read the sad accident with 
 a careless eye, the newspaper giving a wrong name 
 to the poor sufferer ; but learn' d the truth from 
 Clarke. God send him ease, and you comfort in 
 your thick misfortunes. I am in a sorry state. 
 'T is the eleventh week of the illness, and I can- 
 not get her well. To add to the calamity, Miss 
 James is obliged to leave us in a day or two. 
 We had an Enfield nurse for seven weeks, and 
 just as she seem'd mending, she was call'd away. 
 Miss J.'s coming seem'd to put her back, and 
 now she is going. I do not compare my suffer- 
 ings to yours, but you see the world is full of 
 
 109 
 
troubles. I wish I could say a word to comfort 
 you. You must cling to all that is left. I fear to 
 ask you whether the Book is to be discontinued. 
 What a pity, when it must have delighted so 
 many ! Let me hear about you and it, and be- 
 lieve me with deepest fellow-feeling, 
 
 Your friend, C. Lamb 
 
 DL. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 Middle December, 1827. 
 
 My dear Allsop, — Thanks for the birds. 
 Your announcement puzzles me sadly, as no- 
 thing came. I send you back a word in your letter, 
 which I can positively make nothing of and 
 therefore return to you as useless. It means to 
 refer to the birds, but gives me no information. 
 They are at the fire, however. 
 
 My sister's illness is the most obstinate she 
 ever had. It will not go away, and I am afraid 
 Miss James will not be able to stay above a day 
 or two longer. I am desperate to think of it 
 sometimes. 'T is eleven weeks ! The day is sad 
 as my prospects. With kindest love to Mrs. A. 
 and the children, yours, C. L. 
 
 No Atlas this week. Poor Hone's good boy 
 Alfred has fractured his skull, another son is 
 returned " dead " from the Navy Office, and 
 his Book is going to be given up, not having 
 answered. What a world of troubles this is ! 
 
 1 10 
 
DLL — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 December 20, 1827. 
 
 My dear Allsop, — I have writ to say to you 
 that I hope to have a comfortable Xm as-day 
 with Mary, and I cannot bring myself to go from 
 home at present. Your kind offer, and the kind 
 consent of the young lady to come, we feel as 
 we should do ; pray accept all of you our kindest 
 thanks : at present I think a visitor (good and 
 excellent as we remember her to be) might a 
 little put us out of our way. Emma is with us, 
 and our small house just holds us, without 
 obliging Mary to sleep with Becky, &c. 
 
 We are going on extremely comfortably, and 
 shall soon be in capacity of seeing our friends. 
 Much weakness is left still. With thanks and 
 old remembrances, yours, C. L. 
 
 DLIL — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 December 22, 1827. 
 
 My dear Moxon, — I am at length able to 
 tell you that we are all doing well, and shall be 
 able soon to see our friends as usual. If you will 
 venture a winter walk to Enfield to-morrow week 
 (Sunday 30th) you will find us much as usual ; 
 we intend a delicious quiet Christmas day, dull 
 and friendless, for we have not spirits for festiv- 
 ities. Pray communicate the good news to the 
 Hoods, and say I hope he is better. I should 
 
 in 
 
be thankful for any of the books you mention, 
 but I am so apprehensive of their miscarriage by 
 the stage, — at all events I want none just now. 
 
 Pray call and see Mrs. Lovekin, I heard she 
 was ill ; say we shall be glad to see them some 
 fine day after a week or so. 
 
 May I beg you to call upon Miss James, and 
 say that we are quite well, and that Mary hopes 
 she will excuse her writing herself yet ; she 
 knows that it is rather troublesome to her to 
 write. We have received her letter. Farewell, 
 till we meet. Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 DLIII. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 End of 1827. 
 
 My dear B., — We are all pretty well again 
 and comfortable, and I take a first opportunity 
 of sending the Adventures of Ulysses, hoping that 
 among us — Homer, Chapman, and Co. — we 
 shall afford you some pleasure. I fear it is out of 
 print, if not A. K. will accept it, with wishes it 
 were bigger ; if another copy is not to be had, 
 it reverts to me and my heirs for ever. With it 
 I send a trumpery book ; to which, without my 
 knowledge, the editor of the Bijoux has contrib- 
 uted Lucy's verses : I am asham'd to ask her 
 acceptance of the trash accompanying it. Adieu 
 to albums — for a great while, I said when I 
 came here, and had not been fixed two days but 
 my landlord's daughter (not at the pothouse) 
 
 1 12 
 
requested me to write in her female friend's and 
 
 in her own ; if I go to , thou art there also, 
 
 O all pervading album! All over the Leeward 
 Islands, in Newfoundland, and the Back Settle- 
 ments, I understand there is no other reading. 
 They haunt me. I die of Albo-phobia ! 
 
 DLIV. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 January 9, 1828. 
 
 Dear Allsop, — I have been very poorly and 
 nervous lately, but am recovering sleep, &c. I do 
 not invite or make engagements for particular 
 days ; but I need not say how pleasant your drop- 
 ping in any Sunday morning would be. Perhaps 
 Jameson would accompany you. Pray beg him 
 to keep an accurate record of the warning I sent 
 by him to old Pan, for I dread lest he should at 
 the twelve months' end deny the warning. The 
 house is his daughter's, but we took it through 
 him, and have paid the rent to his receipts for 
 his daughter's. Consult J. if he thinks the warn- 
 ing sufficient. I am very nervous, or have been, 
 about the house ; lost my sleep, and expected to 
 be ill ; but slumbered gloriously last night, golden 
 slumbers. I shall not relapse. You fright me 
 with your inserted slips in the most welcome 
 Atlas. They begin to charge double for it, and 
 call it two sheets. How can I confute them 
 by opening it, when a note of yours might slip 
 out, and we get in a hobble ? When you write, 
 
 "■3 
 
write real letters. Mary's best love and mine 
 to Mrs. A. Yours ever, C. Lamb 
 
 DLV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 January, 1828. 
 
 Dear Moxon, — I have to thank you for de- 
 spatching so much business for me. I am uneasy 
 respecting the enclosed receipts which you sent 
 me and are dated January, 1 827. Pray get them 
 chang'd by Mr. Henshall to 1828. I have been 
 in a very nervous way since I saw you. Pray 
 excuse me to the Hoods for not answering his 
 very pleasant letter. I am very poorly. The 
 Keepsake I hope is return'd. I sent it back by 
 Mrs. Hazlitt on Thursday. 'T was blotted out- 
 side when it came. The rest I think are mine. 
 
 My heart bleeds about poor Hone, that such 
 an agreeable book, and a Book there seem'd no 
 reason should not go on for ever, should be given 
 up, and a thing substituted which in its nature 
 cannot last. Don't send me any more Companions, 
 for it only vexes me about the Table Book. This 
 is not weather to hope to see anybody to-day, 
 but, without any particular invitations, pray con- 
 sider that we are at any time most glad to see 
 you. You (with Hunt's Lord Byron or Hazlitt's 
 Napoleon in your hand) or you simply with your 
 switch, &c. The night was damnable and the 
 morning is not too bless-able. If you get my 
 dates changed, I will not trouble you with busi- 
 
 114 
 
ness for some time. Best of all remembrances to 
 the Hoods, with a malicious congratulation on 
 their friend Rice's advancement. 
 
 Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 DLVI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 February 18, 1828. 
 
 Dear M., — I had rather thought to have seen 
 you yesterday, or I should have written to thank 
 you for your attentions in the book way, &c. 
 Hone's address is 22 Belvidere Place, Southwark. 
 'T is near the obelisk. I can only say we shall 
 be most glad to see you, when weather suits, and 
 that it will be a joyful surprisal to see the Hoods. 
 I should write to them, but am poorly and nervous. 
 Emma is very proud of her Valentine. Mary does 
 not immediately want books, having a damn'd 
 consignment of novels in MS. from Malta; which 
 I wish the Mediterranean had in its guts. 
 
 Believe me, yours truly, C. L. 
 
 DLVII. — TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE 
 
 February 25, 1828. 
 
 My dear Clarke, — You have been accumu- 
 lating on me such a heap of pleasant obligations 
 that I feel uneasy in writing as to a benefactor. 
 Your smaller contributions, the little weekly rills, 
 are refreshments in the desart, but your large 
 books were feasts. I hope Mrs. Hazlitt, to whom 
 
 "5 
 
I encharged it, has taken Hunt's Lord B. to the 
 Novellos. His picture of Literary Lordship is 
 as pleasant as a disagreeable subject can be made, 
 his own poor man's Education at dear Christ's 
 is as good and hearty as the subject. Hazlitt's 
 speculative episodes are capital ; I skip the Bat- 
 tles. But how did I deserve to have the Book ? 
 
 The Companion has too much of Madam Pasta. 
 Theatricals have ceased to be popular attractions. 
 His walk home after the Play is as good as the 
 best of the old Indicators. The watchmen are 
 emboxed in a niche of fame, save the skaiting 
 one that must be still fugitive. I wish I could 
 send a scrap for good will. But I have been 
 most seriously unwell and nervous a long long 
 time. I have scarce mustered courage to begin 
 this short note, but conscience duns me. 
 
 I had a pleasant letter from your sister, greatly 
 over-acknowledging my poor sonnet. I think 
 I should have replied to it, but tell her I think 
 so. Alas for sonnetting, 't is as the nerves are ; all 
 the summer I was dawdling among green lanes, 
 and verses came as thick as fancies. I am sunk 
 winterly below prose and zero. 
 
 But I trust the vital principle is only as under 
 snow. That I shall yet laugh again. 
 
 I suppose the great change of place affects me, 
 but I could not have lived in town, I could not 
 bear company. 
 
 I see Novello flourishes in the Del Capo line, 
 and dedications are not forgotten. I read the 
 
 116 
 
Atlas. When I pitched on the Dedication I 
 looked for the Broom of " Cowden knows " to 
 be harmonized, but 't was summat of Rossini's. 
 
 I want to hear about Hone : does he stand 
 above water? how is his son? I have delay'd 
 writing to him, till it seems impossible. Break 
 the ice for me. 
 
 The wet ground here is intolerable, the sky 
 above clear and delusive, but underfoot quag- 
 mires from night showers, and I am cold-footed 
 and moisture-abhorring as a cat; nevertheless I 
 yesterday tramped to Waltham Cross ; perhaps 
 the poor bit of exertion necessary to scribble 
 this was owing to that unusual bracing. 
 
 If I get out, I shall get stout, and then some- 
 thing will out — I mean for the Companion — 
 you see I rhyme insensibly. 
 
 Traditions are rife here of one Clarke a school- 
 master, and a runaway pickle named Holmes, 
 but much obscurity hangs over it. Is it possible 
 they can be any relations ? 
 
 'T is worth the research, when you can find a 
 sunny day, with ground firm, &c. Master Sexton 
 is intelligent, and for half-a-crown he '11 pick 
 you up a father. 
 
 In truth we shall be most glad to see any of 
 the Novellian circle, middle of the week such 
 as can come, or Sunday, as can't. But spring will 
 burgeon out quickly, and then we '11 talk more. 
 
 You 'd like to see the improvements on the 
 Chase, the new Cross in the market-place, the 
 
 117 
 
chandler's shop from whence the rods were 
 fetch'd. They are raised a farthing since the 
 spread of education. But perhaps you don't care 
 to be reminded of the Holofernes' days, and 
 nothing remains of the old laudable profession, 
 but the clear, firm, impossible-to-be-mistaken 
 schoolmaster text hand with which is subscribed 
 the ever-welcome name of Chas. Cowden C. 
 Let me crowd in both our loves to all. C. L. 
 
 Let me never be forgotten to include in my 
 remembrances my good friend and whilom cor- 
 respondent Master Stephen. 
 
 How, especially, is Victoria ? 
 
 I try to remember all I used to meet at Shack- 
 lewell. The little household, cake-producing, 
 wine-bringing-out Emma — the old servant, that 
 didn't stay, and ought to have staid, and was 
 always very dirty and friendly, and Miss H., the 
 counter-tenor with a fine voice, whose sister 
 married Thurtell. They all live in my mind's 
 eye, and Mr. N.'s and Holmes's walks with us 
 halfback after supper. Troiafuit! 
 
 DLVIII. — TO CHARLES C. CLARKE 
 
 Dear C, — I shall do very well. The sunshine 
 is medicinal, as you will find when you venture 
 hither some fine day. Enfield is beautiful. 
 
 Yours truly, C. L. 
 
 118 
 
DLIX. — TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON 
 
 February 26, 1828. 
 
 My dear Robinson, — It will be a very painful 
 thing to us indeed, if you give up coming to see 
 us, as we fear, on account of the nearness of the 
 poor lady you inquire after. It is true that on 
 the occasion she mentions, which was on her re- 
 turn from last seeing her daughter, she was very 
 heated and feverish, but there seems to be a great 
 amendment in her since, and she has within a day 
 or two passed a quiet evening with us. At the 
 same time I dare not advise anything one way or 
 another respecting her daughter coming to live 
 with her. I entirely disclaim the least opinion 
 about it. If we named anything before her, it 
 was erroneously, on the notion that she was the 
 obstacle to the plan which had been suggested of 
 placing her daughter in a private family, which 
 seem' d your wish. But I have quite done with the 
 subject. If we can be of any amusement to the 
 poor lady, without self disturbance, we will. But 
 come and see us after Circuit, as if she were not. 
 You have no more affectionate friends than 
 
 C. and M. Lamb 
 
 DLX. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 March 19, 1828. 
 
 My dear M., — It is my firm determination to 
 have nothing to do with Forget-me-Nots — pray 
 
 119 
 
excuse me as civilly as you can to Mr. Hurst. 
 I will take care to refuse any other applications. 
 The things which Pickering has, if to be had 
 again, I have promised absolutely, you know, to 
 poor Hood, from whom I had a melancholy epis- 
 tle yesterday ; besides that, Emma has decided ob- 
 jections to her own and her friend's album verses 
 being published ; but if she gets over that, they 
 are decidedly Hood's. 
 
 Till we meet, farewell. Loves to Dash. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 DLXI. — TO THE REV. EDWARD IRVING 
 
 April 3, 1828. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I take advantage from the kind- 
 ness which I have experienced from you in a 
 slight acquaintance to introduce to you my very 
 respected friend Mr. Hone, who is of opinion that 
 your interference in a point which he will men- 
 tion to you may prove of essential benefit to him 
 in some present difficulties. I should not take 
 this liberty if I did not feel that you are a person 
 not to be prejudiced by an obnoxious name. All 
 that I know of him obliges me to respect him, 
 and to request your kindness for him, if you can 
 serve him. 
 
 With feelings of kindest respect, I am, dear 
 Sir, yours truly, 
 
 Chas. Lamb 
 
 120 
 
DLXIL — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 April 21, 1828. 
 
 Dear B. B., — You must excuse my silence. 
 I have been in very poor health and spirits, and 
 cannot write letters. I only write to assure you, 
 as you wish'd, of my existence. All that which 
 Mitford tells you of H.'s book is rhodomontade, 
 only H. has written unguardedly about me, and 
 nothing makes a man more foolish than his own 
 foolish panegyric. But I am pretty well cased 
 to flattery, or its contrary. Neither affects me 
 a turnip's worth. Do you see the author of May 
 you Like it ? Do you write to him ? Will you 
 give my present plea to him of ill health for not 
 acknowledging a pretty book with a pretty front- 
 ispiece he sent me. He is most esteem' d by me. 
 As for subscribing to books, in plain truth I am 
 a man of reduced income, and don't allow my- 
 self twelve shillings a-year to buy old books with, 
 which must be my excuse. I am truly sorry 
 for Murray's demur, but I wash my hands of 
 all booksellers, and hope to know them no more. 
 I am sick and poorly and must leave off, with 
 our joint kind remembrances to your daughter 
 and friend A. K. C. L. 
 
 DLXIII.— TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 May 1, 1828. 
 
 Dear A., — I am better. Mary quite well. We 
 121 
 
expected to see you before. I can't write long let- 
 ters. So a friendly love to you all. Yours ever, 
 
 C. L. 
 This sunshine is healing. 
 
 DLXIV. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 May 2, 1828. 
 
 Dear H., — Valter Vilson dines with us to- 
 morrow. Veil ! How I should like to see Hone ! 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 DLXV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 May 3, 1828. 
 
 Dear M., — My friend Patmore, author of the 
 Months, a very pretty publication, — of sundry 
 Essays in the London, New Monthly, &c, wants to 
 dispose of a volume or two of Tales. Perhaps 
 they might chance to suit Hurst ; but be that as 
 it may, he will call upon you, under favour of my 
 recommendation ; and as he is returning to France, 
 where he lives, if you can do anything for him 
 in the treaty line, to save him dancing over the 
 Channel every week, I am sure you will. I said 
 I 'd never trouble you again ; but how vain are 
 the resolves of mortal man ! P. is a very hearty, 
 friendly fellow, and was poor John Scott's sec- 
 ond, as I will be yours when you want one. 
 May you never be mine ! 
 
 Yours truly, C. L. 
 
 122 
 
DLXVL — TO WALTER WILSON 
 
 May 17, 1828. 
 
 Dear Walter, — The sight of your old name 
 again was like a resurrection. It had passed away 
 into the dimness of a dead friend. We shall be 
 most joyful to see you here next week, — if I 
 understand you right, — for your note dated the 
 10th arrived only yesterday, Friday the 1 6th. 
 Suppose I name Thursday next. If that don't suit, 
 write to say so. A morning coach comes from 
 the Bell or Bell and Crown by Leather Lane, 
 Holborn, and sets you down at our house on 
 the Chase Side, next door to Mr. Westwood's, 
 whom all the coachmen know. 
 
 I have four more notes to write, so dispatch 
 this with again assuring you how happy we shall 
 be to see you, and to discuss Defoe and old mat- 
 ters. Yours truly, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 DLXVII. — TO THOMAS N. TALFOURD 
 
 May 20, 1828. 
 
 My dear Talfourd, — We propose being with 
 you on Wednesday not unearly, Mary to take 
 a bed with you, and I with Crabbe, if, as I under- 
 stand, he be of the party. Yours ever, 
 
 Ch. Lamb 
 
 123 
 
DLXVIII.— TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 May, 1828. 
 
 Dear Wordsworth, — We had meant to have 
 tried to see Mrs. Wordsworth and Dora next 
 Wednesday, but we are intercepted by a violent 
 toothache which Mary has got by getting up 
 next morning after parting with you, to be with 
 my going off at half-past eight Holborn. We 
 are poor travellers, and moreover we have com- 
 pany (damn 'em), good people, Mr. Hone and 
 an old crony not seen for twenty years, coming 
 here on Tuesday, one stays night with us, and 
 Mary doubts my power to get up time enough, 
 and comfort enough, to be so far as you are. 
 Will you name a day in the same or coming 
 week that we can come to you in the morning, 
 for it would plague us not to see the other two 
 of you, whom we cannot individualize from 
 you, before you go ? It is bad enough not to see 
 your sister Dorothy. 
 
 God bless you sincerely, C. Lamb 
 
 DLXIX. — TO THE REV. HENRY F. CARY 
 
 June 10, 1828. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I long to see Wordsworth once 
 more before he goes hence, but it would be at 
 the expence of health and comfort my infirm- 
 ities cannot afford. Once only I have been at 
 a dinner party, to meet him, for a whole year 
 
 124 
 
past, and I do not know that I am not the worse 
 for it now. There is a necessity for my drinking 
 
 too much (don't show this to the bishop of , 
 
 your friend) at and after dinner ; then I require 
 spirits at night to allay the crudity of the weaker 
 Bacchus ; and in the morning I cool my parched 
 stomach with a fiery libation. Then I am aground 
 in town, and call upon my London friends, and 
 get new wets of ale, porter, &c. ; then ride home, 
 drinking where the coach stops, as duly as Edward 
 set up his Waltham Crosses. This, or near it, 
 was the process of my experiment of dining at 
 Talfourd's to meet Wordsworth, and I am not 
 well now. Now let me beg that we may meet 
 here with assured safety to both sides. Darley and 
 Procter come here on Sunday morning ; pray 
 arrange to come along with them. Here I can 
 be tolerably moderate. In town, the very air of 
 town turns my head and is intoxication enough, 
 if intoxication knew a limit. I am a poor country 
 mouse, and your cates disturb me. Tell me you 
 will come. We have a bed, and a half or three 
 quarters bed, at all your services ; and the adjoin- 
 ing inn has many. If engaged on Sunday, tell me 
 when you will come ; a Saturday will suit as well. 
 I would that Wordsworth would come too. Pray 
 believe that 't is my health only, which brought 
 me here, that frightens me from the wicked town. 
 Mary joins in kind remembrances to Mrs. Cary 
 and yourself. Yours truly, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
DLXX. — TO B. R. HAYDON 
 
 August, 1828. 
 
 Dear Haydon, — I have been tardy in telling 
 you that your " Chairing the Member " gave 
 me great pleasure ; 't is true broad Hogarthian 
 fun, the High Sheriff capital. Considering, too, 
 that you had the materials imposed upon you, 
 and that you did not select them from the rude 
 world as H. did, I hope to see many more such 
 from your hand. If the former picture went 
 beyond this I have had a loss, and the King a 
 bargain. I longed to rub the back of my hand 
 across the hearty canvas that two senses might 
 be gratified. Perhaps the subject is a little dis- 
 cordantly placed opposite to another act of 
 Chairing, where the huzzas were Hosannahs, — 
 but I was pleased to see so many of my old ac- 
 quaintances brought together notwithstanding. 
 
 Believe me, yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 DLXXI. — TO JOHN RICKMAN 
 
 September II, 1828. 
 
 Dear Rickman, — We are just come home 
 from a London visit and are mortified to learn 
 that we missed you on Saturday. The same ab- 
 sence cannot recur before the 29th, or feast of 
 St. Michael, on which day I pay my quarterly 
 respects to the India Directors. If you can make 
 another day between, you are sure of finding us. 
 
 126 
 
The nuts are very acceptable, Mary being a 
 grievous offender that way ; but to think of 
 bringing apples to the proprietor of a whole tree, 
 almost an orchard, and who actually has an apple 
 chamber redolent, was a solecism. Yours ever, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 Do you ever light upon G. D. now ? Could 
 you bring him ? 
 
 DLXXII. — TO LOUISA HOLCROFT 
 
 October 2, 1828. 
 
 Mary Lamb has written her last letter in this 
 world. Do not imagine that her individual sub- 
 stance has perished ! 'T is extant yet and sleek, 
 but her epistolary part is dead before her, and 
 has left me writing legatee. Could not you have 
 slipt down for a day or two this Michaelmas 
 vacation ? 'T would have been worth while to 
 have seen the difference on our green. On the 
 28th 't was whitened over with those pretty birds 
 that look like snow in summer, and cackle like 
 ice breaking up : the fatal 29th arrove (is that 
 English ?), and their place knew them no more. 
 Here and there a solitary duck survives to remind 
 one of the superior race which had been extin- 
 guished — swans to them. 
 
 You remember I asked a large party of them 
 into our grounds to meet you. Of all that 
 pleasant party, your dear self excepted, not one 
 remains with a whole throat. 
 
 127 
 
You send loves to Mrs. Morgan — who or 
 what is she, or what dream was it that any such 
 person is here ? You add, too, that she is grown 
 plump — is that a reason why love should be 
 sent her ? I understand neither the logic nor 
 affection implied in that passage. 
 
 I have nearly lost my arithmetic since you 
 went, but count upon renewing it some day with 
 you. Enfield is dull, but London is turbulent. 
 We have disqualified ourselves for a town life by 
 migrating here, but cannot (for our Cockney 
 souls) get up a rural taste, so we hang suburb- 
 ian. 
 
 I could not bring myself to face Mr. Kenny 
 in Brunswick Square (time and next occasion 
 may take off the terror). I thought it would 
 look so like coming to be repaid for any little 
 hospitalities which I might have had in my 
 power to show him while he staid at Enfield, 
 which were no more than one gentleman ought 
 to do to another — marry, 't is well if he thought 
 'em so much. 
 
 And how are all the little orphans committed 
 to your trust ? Mind their morals first. I would 
 not give twopence for all the learning you can 
 put into them in comparison with that. Do they 
 lay three in a bed ? Do you see them properly 
 lain and tidy before you go to bed yourself of 
 a night — I mean before you lie yourself down 
 to sleep ? 
 
 Mary tells me to say that Mrs. Collier knows 
 128 
 
we shall be happy to see her any day without 
 ceremony. 
 
 And to have you again when you have va- 
 cation, for you were not very troublesome — 
 indeed, we are more hospitable by nature than 
 some folks would guess from our practice. With 
 best loves to Mrs. Kenny, twins and no twins, 
 Yours truly, C. and M. Lamb 
 
 DLXXIII. — TO JOHN RICKMAN 
 
 [The following is an English version, given by E. V. Lu- 
 cas, of a letter, written in Latin, from Charles Lamb to John 
 Rickman :] 
 
 Postmark, Oct. 3, 1828. 
 
 I have been thinking of sending some kind of an answer in 
 Latin to your very elaborate letter, but something has arisen 
 every day to hinder me. To begin with, our awkward friend 
 M. B. has been with us for a while, and every day and all day 
 we have had such a lecture, you know how he stutters, on legal 
 (mind, nothing but legal) notices, that I have been afraid the 
 Latin I want to write might prove rather barbaro-forensic than 
 Ciceronian. He is swallowed up, body and soul, in law ; he 
 eats, drinks, plays (at the card-table) Law, nothing but Law. 
 He acts Ignoramus in the play so thoroughly, that you would 
 swear that in the inmost marrow of his head (is not this the 
 proper anatomical term ? ) there have housed themselves not 
 devils but pettifoggers, to bemuddle with their noisy chatter 
 his own and his friends' wits. He brought here, 't was all his 
 luggage, a book, Fearne on Contingent Remainders. This book 
 he has read so hard, and taken such infinite pains to under- 
 stand, that the reader's brain has few or no Remainders to 
 continge. Enough, however, of M. B. and his luggage. To 
 come back to your claims upon me. Your return journey, 
 with notes, I read again and again, nor have I done with 
 them yet. You always make something fresh out of a hack- 
 
 129 
 
neyed theme. Our milestones, you say, bristle with blunders, 
 but I must shortly explain why I cannot comply with your 
 directions herein. 
 
 Suppose I were to consult the local magnates about a matter 
 of this kind. Ha ! says one of our waywardens or parish over- 
 seers, — What business is this of yours? Do you want to drop 
 the lodger and come out as a householder ? — Now you must 
 know that I took this house of mine at Enfield, by an obvious 
 domiciliary fiction, in my sister's name, to avoid the bother 
 and trouble of parish and vestry-meetings, and to escape finding 
 myself one day an overseer or big-wig of some sort. What then 
 would be my reply to the above question ? 
 
 Leisure I have secured : but of dignity, not a tittle. Besides, 
 to tell you the truth, the aforesaid irregularities are, to my 
 thinking, most entertaining, and in fact very touching indeed. 
 Here am I, quit of worldly affairs of every kind ; for if super- 
 annuation does not mean that, what does it mean ? The world 
 then, being, as the saying is, beyond my ken, and being myself 
 entirely removed from any accurate distinctions of space or 
 time, these mistakes in road-measure do not seriously offend 
 me. For in the infinite space of the heavens above (which in 
 this contracted sphere of mine I desire to imitate so far as may 
 be) what need is there of milestones ? Local distance has to 
 do with mortal affairs. In my walks abroad, limited though 
 they must be, I am quite at my own disposal, and on that 
 account I have a good word for our Enfield clocks too. Their 
 hands generally point without any servile reference to this sun 
 of our world, in his /^-empyrean position. They strike too 
 just as it happens, according to their own sweet wills, — one 
 — two — three — anything they like, and thus to me, a more 
 fortunate Whittington, they pleasantly announce, that Time, 
 so far as I am concerned, is no more. Here you have my 
 reasons for not attending in this matter to the requests of a 
 busy subsolar such as you are. 
 
 Furthermore, when I reach the milestone that counts from 
 the Hicks Hall that stands now, I own at once the aulic 
 dignity, and, were I a gaol-bird, I should shake in my shoes. 
 When I reach the next which counts from the site of the old 
 hall, my thoughts turn to the fallen grandeur of the pile, and 
 
 130 
 
I reflect upon the perishable condition of the most imposing 
 of human structures. Thus I banish from my soul all pride 
 and arrogance, and with such meditations purify my heart 
 from day to day. A wayfarer such as I am, may learn from 
 Vincent Bourne, in words terser and neater than any of mine, 
 the advantages of milestones properly arranged. The lines are 
 at the end of a little poem of his, called Milestones — (Do you 
 remember it or shall I write it all out ? ) 
 
 How well the Milestones' use doth this express, 
 Which make the miles (seem) more and way seem less. 
 
 What do you mean by this — I am borrowing hand and 
 style from this youngster of mine — your son, I take it. The 
 style looks, nay on careful inspection by these old eyes, is 
 most clearly your very own, and the writing too. Either R's 
 or the Devil's. I will defer your explanation till our next 
 meeting — may it be soon. 
 
 My Latin failing me, as you may infer from erasures above, 
 there is only this to add. Farewell, and be sure to give 
 Mrs. Rickman my kind remembrances. C. Lamb 
 
 DLXXIV.— TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 October n, 1828. 
 
 A splendid edition of Bui. an's Pilgrim — why, 
 the thought is enough to turn one's moral stom- 
 ach. His cockle hat and staff transformed to a 
 smart cock'd beaver and a jemmy cane, his amice 
 gray to the last Regent Street cut, and his pain- 
 ful palmer's pace to the modern swagger. Stop 
 thy friend's sacrilegious hand. Nothing can be 
 done for B.but to reprint the old cuts in as homely 
 but good a style as possible. The Vanity Fair, 
 and the pilgrims there — the silly soothness in 
 his setting-out countenance — the Christian 
 
 l 3 l 
 
idiocy (in a good sense) of his admiration of the 
 shepherds on the Delectable Mountains — the 
 lions so truly allegorical and remote from any 
 similitude to Pidcock's. The great head (the au- 
 thor's) capacious of dreams and similitudes dream- 
 ing in the dungeon. Perhaps you don't know my 
 edition, what I had when a child : if you do, can 
 you bear new designs from — Martin, enamel'd 
 into copper or silver plate by — Heath, accom- 
 panied with verses from Mrs. Hemans's pen, O 
 how unlike his own ! — 
 
 Wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy ? 
 
 VVouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly ? 
 
 Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation ? 
 
 Or else be drowned in thy contemplation ? 
 
 Dost thou love picking meat ? or wouldst thou see 
 
 A man i' th' clouds, and hear him speak to thee ? 
 
 Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep ? 
 
 Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep ? 
 
 Or wouldst thou lose thyself, and catch no harm, 
 
 And find thyself again without a charm ? 
 
 Wouldst read thyself, and read thou knowst not what, 
 
 And yet know whether thou art blest or not 
 
 By reading the same lines ? O then come hither, 
 
 And lay my book, thy head and heart together. 
 
 John Bunyan 
 
 Shew me such poetry in any of the fifteen forth- 
 coming combinations of show and emptiness, 
 yclept annuals. Let me whisper in your ear that 
 wholesome sacramental bread is not more nu- 
 tritious than papistical wafer stuff, than these 
 (to head and heart) exceed the visual frippery of 
 Mitford's Salamander God, baking himself up 
 
 132 
 
to the work of creation in a solar oven, not 
 yet by the terms of the context itself existing. 
 Blake's ravings made genteel. So there 's verses 
 for thy verses ; and now let me tell you that 
 the sight of your hand gladden'd me. I have 
 been daily trying to write to you, but paralysed. 
 You have spur'd me on this tiny effort, and at 
 intervals I hope to hear from and talk to you. 
 But my spirits have been in a deprest way for 
 a long long time, and they are things which 
 must be to you of faith, for who can explain 
 depression ? 
 
 Yes, I am hooked into the Gem, but only for 
 some lines written on a dead infant of the edit- 
 or's, which being as it were his property, I could 
 not refuse their appearing, but I hate the paper, 
 the type, the gloss, the dandy plates, the names 
 of contributors poked up into your eyes in first 
 page, and whistled thro' all the covers of maga- 
 zines, the barefaced sort of emulation, the un- 
 modest candidateship, brought into so little space 
 — in those old Londons a signature was lost in the 
 wood of matter — the paper coarse (till latterly, 
 which spoil' d them) — in short I detest to appear 
 in an Annual. 
 
 What a fertile genius (and a quiet good soul 
 withal) is Hood. He has fifty things in hand, 
 farces to supply the Adelphi for the season, a 
 comedy for one of the great theatres, just ready, 
 a whole entertainment by himself for Mathews 
 and Yates to figure in, a meditated Comic Annual 
 
 r 33 
 
for next year, to be nearly done by himself. 
 You 'd like him very much. Wordsworth I see 
 has a good many pieces announced in one of 
 'em, not our Gem. W. Scott has distributed him- 
 self like a bribe haunch among 'em. Of all the 
 poets, Cary has had the good sense to keep quite 
 clear of 'em, with clergy-gentle-manly right 
 notions. Don't think I set up for being proud 
 in this point, I like a bit of flattery tickling my 
 vanity as well as any one. But these pompous 
 masquerades without masks (naked names or 
 faces) I hate. So there 's a bit of my mind. Be- 
 sides they infallibly cheat you, I mean the book- 
 sellers. If I get but a copy, I only expect it from 
 Hood's being my friend. Coleridge has lately 
 been here. He, too, is deep among the Prophets 
 — the Year-servers — the mob of Gentlemen 
 annuals. But they '11 cheat him, I know. 
 
 And now, dear B. B., the sun shining out 
 merrily, and the dirty clouds we had yesterday 
 having wash'd their own faces clean with their 
 own rain, tempts me to wander up Winchmore 
 Hill, or into some of the delightful vicinages of 
 Enfield, which I hope to show you at some time 
 when you can get a few days up to the great 
 town. Believe me it would give both of us great 
 pleasure to show you all three (we can lodge 
 you) our pleasant farms and villages. 
 
 We both join in kindest loves to you and 
 yours. Ch. Lamb, redivivus 
 
 *34 
 
DLXXV.— TO CHARLES C. CLARKE 
 
 October, 1828. 
 
 Dear Clarke, — We did expect to see you with 
 Victoria and the Novellos before this, and do not 
 quite understand why we have not. Mrs. N. and 
 V. [Vincent] promised us after the York expe- 
 dition; a day being named before, which fail'd. 
 'T is not too late. The autumn leaves drop gold, 
 and Enfield is beautifuller — to a common eye 
 — than when you lurked at the Greyhound. 
 Benedicks are close, but how I so totally missed 
 you at that time, going for my morning cup of 
 ale duly, is a mystery. 'T was stealing a match 
 before one's face in earnest. But certainly we 
 had not a dream of your appropinquity. I in- 
 stantly prepared an Epithalamium, in the form 
 of a Sonata — which I was sending to Novello 
 to compose — but Mary forbid it me, as too 
 light for the occasion — as if the subject required 
 anything heavy — so in a tiff with her I sent no 
 congratulation at all. Tho' I promise you the 
 wedding was very pleasant news to me indeed. 
 Let your reply name a day this next week, when 
 you will come as many as a coach will hold; 
 such a day as we had at Dulwich. My very kind- 
 est love and Mary's to Victoria and the Novellos. 
 The enclosed is from a friend nameless, but high- 
 ish in office, and a man whose accuracy of state- 
 ment may be relied on with implicit confidence. 
 He wants the expose to appear in a newspaper as 
 
 *35 
 
the " greatest piece of legal and Parliamentary 
 villainy he ever remembered," and he has had 
 experience in both ; and thinks it would answer 
 afterwards in a cheap pamphlet printed at Lam- 
 beth in 8° sheet, as 1 6,000 families in that parish 
 are interested. I know not whether the present 
 Examiner keeps up the character of exposing 
 abuses, for I scarce see a paper now. If so, you 
 may ascertain Mr. Hunt of the strictest truth of 
 the statement, at the peril of my head. But if 
 this won't do, transmit it me back, I beg, per 
 coach, or better, bring it with you. 
 
 Yours unaltered, C. Lamb 
 
 DLXXVI. — TO VINCENT NOVELLO 
 
 November 6, 1828. 
 
 My dear Novello, — I am afraid I shall ap- 
 pear rather tardy in offering my congratulations, 
 however sincere, upon your daughter's marriage. 
 The truth is, I had put together a little Serenata 
 upon the occasion, but was prevented from send- 
 ing it by my sister, to whose judgment I am apt 
 to defer too much in these kind of things ; so 
 that, now I have her consent, the offering, I am 
 afraid, will have lost the grace of seasonableness. 
 Such as it is, I send it. She thinks it a little too 
 old-fashioned in the manner, too much like what 
 they wrote a century back. But I cannot write 
 in the modern style, if I try ever so hard. I have 
 attended to the proper divisions for the music, 
 
 136 
 
and you will have little difficulty in composing 
 it. If I may advise, make Pepusch your model, 
 or Blow. It will be necessary to have a good 
 second voice, as the stress of the melody lies 
 there : 
 
 SERENATA, FOR TWO VOICES 
 
 On the Marriage of Charles Cow den Clarke, Esqre., to Victoria, eldest 
 daughter of Vincent Novello, Esqre. 
 
 Duetto 
 Wake th' harmonious voice and string, 
 Love and Hymen's triumph sing, 
 Sounds with secret charms combining, 
 In melodious union joining, 
 Best the wondrous joys can tell, 
 That in hearts united dwell. 
 
 Recitative 
 First To young Victoria's happy fame 
 Voice. Well may the Arts a trophy raise, 
 Music grows sweeter in her praise, 
 And, own'd by her, with rapture speaks her name. 
 To touch the brave Cowdenio's heart, 
 
 The Graces all in her conspire ; 
 Love arms her with his surest dart, 
 Apollo with his lyre. 
 
 Air 
 The list'ning Muses all around her 
 
 Think 'tis Phoebus' strain they hear; 
 And Cupid, drawing near to wound her, 
 
 Drops his bow, and stands to hear. 
 
 Recitative 
 Second While crowds of rivals with despair 
 Voice. Silent admire, or vainly court the Fair, 
 Behold the happy conquest of her eyes, 
 A Hero is the glorious prize ! 
 
 J37 
 
In courts, in camps, thro' distant realms renown'd, 
 Cowdenio comes ! — Victoria, see, 
 
 He comes with British honour crown'd, 
 Love leads his eager steps to thee. 
 
 Air 
 In tender sighs he silence breaks, 
 
 The Fair his flame approves, 
 Consenting blushes warm her cheeks, 
 
 She smiles, she yields, she loves. 
 
 Recitative 
 
 First Voice. Now Hymen at the altar stands, 
 
 And while he joins their faithful hands, 
 Behold ! by ardent vows brought down, 
 Immortal concord, heavenly bright, 
 Array'd in robes of purest light, 
 Descends, th' auspicious rites to crown. 
 Her golden harp the goddess brings ; 
 Its magic sound 
 Commands a sudden silence all around, 
 And strains prophetic thus attune the strings. 
 
 Duetto 
 First Voice. The Swain his Nymph possessing, 
 Second Voice. The Nymph her swain caressing, 
 First and Shall still improve the blessing, 
 Second. For ever kind and true. 
 
 Both. While rolling years are flying, 
 
 Love, Hymen's lamp supplying, 
 With fuel never dying, 
 Shall still the flame renew. 
 
 To so great a master as yourself I have no need 
 to suggest that the peculiar tone of the composi- 
 tion demands sprightliness, occasionally checked 
 by tenderness, as in the second air, — 
 She smiles, — she yields, — she loves. 
 I 3 8 
 
Again, you need not be told that each fifth line 
 of the two first recitatives requires a crescendo. 
 And your exquisite taste will prevent your falling 
 into the error of Purcell, who at a passage similar 
 to that in my first air, — 
 
 Drops his bow, and stands to hear, 
 
 directed the first violin thus, — 
 
 Here the first violin must drop his bow. 
 
 But, besides the absurdity of disarming his prin- 
 cipal performer of so necessary an adjunct to his 
 instrument, in such an emphatic part of the com- 
 position too, which must have had a droll effect 
 at the time, all such minutiae of adaptation are 
 at this time of day very properly exploded, and 
 Jackson of Exeter very fairly ranks them under 
 the head of puns. 
 
 Should you succeed in the setting of it, we 
 propose having it performed (we have one very 
 tolerable second voice here, and Mr. Holmes, 
 I daresay, would supply the minor parts) at the 
 Greyhound. But it must be a secret to the 
 young couple till we can get the band in readiness. 
 
 Believe me, dear Novello, yours truly, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 DLXXVIL — TO LAMAN BLANCHARD 
 
 November 9, 1828. 
 
 Sir, — I beg to return my acknowledgments 
 for the present of your elegant volume, which 
 
 x 39 
 
I should have esteemed, without the bribe of the 
 name prefixed to it. I have been much pleased 
 with it throughout, but am most taken with the 
 peculiar delicacy of some of the sonnets. I shall 
 put them up among my poetical treasures. 
 
 Your obliged servant, C. Lamb 
 
 DLXXVIII. — TO THOMAS HOOD 
 
 Late autumn, 1828. 
 
 Dear Lamb, — You are an impudent varlet ; 
 but I will keep your secret. We dine at Ayrton's 
 on Thursday, and shall try to find Sarah and her 
 two spare beds for that night only. Miss M. and 
 her tragedy may be dished : so may not you and 
 your rib. Health attend you. 
 
 Yours, T. Hood, Esq^ 
 
 Miss Bridget Hood sends love. 
 DLXXIX. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 December, 1828. 
 
 Dear M., — As I see no blood-marks on the 
 Green Lanes Road, I conclude you got in safe 
 skins home. Have you thought of inquiring 
 Miss Wilson's change of abode ? Of the two 
 copies of my drama I want one sent to Words- 
 worth, together with a complete copy of Hone's 
 Table Book, for which I shall be your debtor till 
 we meet. Perhaps Longman will take charge 
 
 140 
 
of this parcel. The other is for Coleridge at 
 Mr. Gilman's, Grove, Highgate, which may be 
 sent, or, if you have a curiosity to see him, you 
 will make an errand with it to him, and tell 
 him we mean very soon to come and see him, 
 if the Gilmans can give or get us a bed. I am 
 ashamed to be so troublesome. Pray let Hood 
 see the Eclectic Review — a rogue ! The second 
 parts of the Blackwood you may make waste paper 
 of. Yours truly, C. L. 
 
 DLXXX.— TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 December 5, 1828. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I am ashamed to receive so 
 many nice books from you, and to have none to 
 send you in return. You are always sending me 
 some fruits or wholesome pot-herbs, and mine 
 is the garden of the sluggard, nothing but weeds 
 or scarce they. Nevertheless if I knew how to 
 transmit it, I would send you Blackwood' s of this 
 month, which contains a little drama, to have 
 your opinion of it, and how far I have improved, 
 or otherwise, upon its prototype. Thank you for 
 your kind sonnet. It does me good to see the 
 Dedication to a Christian Bishop. I am for a 
 Comprehension, as Divines call it, but so as that 
 the Church shall go a good deal more than half- 
 way over to the Silent Meeting-house. I have 
 ever said that the Quakers are the only Professors 
 of Christianity as I read it in the Evangiles ; I 
 
 141 
 
say Professors — marry, as to practice, with their 
 gaudy hot types and poetical vanities, they are 
 much at one with the sinful. 
 
 Martin's frontispiece is a very fine thing, let 
 C. L. say what he please to the contrary. Of the 
 poems, I like them as a volume better than any 
 one of the preceding ; particularly, Power and 
 Gentleness; The Present ; Lady Russell — with the 
 exception that I do not like the noble act of 
 Curtius, true or false, one of the grand founda- 
 tions of old Roman patriotism, to be sacrificed 
 to Lady R.'s taking notes on her husband's trial. 
 If a thing is good, why invidiously bring it into 
 light with something better ? There are too few 
 heroic things in this world to admit of our mar- 
 shalling them in anxious etiquettes of precedence. 
 Would you make a poem on the Story of Ruth 
 (pretty story !) and then say, Aye, but how much 
 better is the story of Joseph and his Brethren ! 
 To go on, the Stanzas to " Chalon " want the 
 name of Clarkson in the body of them ; it is left 
 to inference. The Battle of Gibeon is spirited 
 again — but you sacrifice it in last stanza to the 
 Song at Bethlehem. Is it quite orthodox to do so ? 
 The first was good, you suppose, for that dis- 
 pensation. Why set the word against the word ? 
 It puzzles a weak Christian. So Watts's Psalms 
 are an implied censure on David's. But as long 
 as the Bible is supposed to be an equally divine 
 emanation with the Testament, so long it will 
 stagger weaklings to have them set in opposition. 
 
 142 
 
Godiva is delicately touch' d. I have always 
 thought it a beautiful story characteristic of old 
 English times. But I could not help amusing 
 myself with the thought — if Martin had chosen 
 this subject for a frontispiece, there would have 
 been in some dark corner a white lady, white as 
 the Walker on the waves — riding upon some 
 mystical quadruped — and high above would 
 have risen " tower above tower a massy structure 
 high" the Tenterden steeples of Coventry, till 
 the poor Cross would scarce have known itself 
 among the clouds, and far above them all, the 
 distant Clint hills peering over chimney pots, 
 piled up, Ossa-on-Olympus fashion, till the ad- 
 miring spectator (admirer of a noble deed) might 
 have gone look for the lady, as you must hunt 
 for the other in the lobster. But M. should be 
 made royal architect. What palaces he would 
 pile ! — but then what parliamentary grants to 
 make them good ! ne'ertheless I like the frontis- 
 piece. 
 
 The "Elephant" is pleasant; and I am glad 
 you are getting into a wider scope of subjects. 
 There may be too much, not religion, but too 
 many good words into a book, till it becomes, as 
 Shakespeare says of religion, a rhapsody of words. 
 I will just name that you have brought in the 
 Song to the Shepherds in four or five if not six 
 places. Now this is not good economy. The 
 Enoch is fine ; and here I can sacrifice Elijah 
 to it, because 'tis illustrative only, and not dis- 
 
 H3 
 
paraging of the latter prophet's departure. I like 
 this best in the book. Lastly, I much like the 
 Heron, 't is exquisite : know you Lord Thurlow's 
 sonnet to a bird of that sort on Lacken water ? 
 If not, 'tis indispensable I send it you, with 
 my Blackwood, if you tell me how best to send 
 them. Fludyer is pleasant. You are getting gay 
 and Hood-ish. What is the Enigma ? money — 
 if not, I fairly confess I am foiled — and sphynx 
 must [here are words crossed through] four times 
 I 've tried to write eat — eat me — and the blot- 
 ting pen turns it into cat me. And now I will 
 take my leave with saying I esteem thy verses, 
 like thy present, honour thy frontispicer, and 
 right-reverence thy Patron and Dedicatee, and 
 am, dear B. B., yours heartily, C. L. 
 
 Our joint kindest loves to A. K. and your 
 daughter. 
 
 DLXXXI. — TO LOUISA HOLCROFT 
 
 December 5, 1828. 
 
 Dear Miss H., — Mary, who never writes, bids 
 me thank you for the handkerchief. I do not 
 understand such work, but if I apprehend her 
 rightly, she would have preferred blonde to 
 white sarcenet for the trimming ; but she did 
 not wish me to tell you so. I only hint it for 
 the next. We are sorry for the mess of illness 
 you are involved in. Are you stout enough to 
 
 144 
 
be the general nurse ? Who told you we should 
 not be glad to see you on Sundays and all ? Tho' 
 we devote that day to its proper duties, as you 
 know, yet you are come of a religious stock, and 
 to you it is not irksome to join in our simple 
 forms, where the heart is all. Your little protegee 
 is well, and as yet honest, but she has no one to 
 give her caps now. 
 
 Thus far I had written last night. You will 
 see by my altered scrawl that I am not so well 
 this morning. I got up with a fevered skin, and 
 spots are come out all over me. Pray God, it 
 is not the measles. You did not let any of the 
 children touch the seal with their little measly 
 hands, did you ? You should be careful when 
 contagion is in the house. Pray God, your letter 
 may not have conveyed the disorder. Our poor 
 postman looks flushed since. What a thing it 
 would be to introduce a disease into a whole 
 village ! Yet so simple a thing as a letter has 
 been known to convey a malady. I look at your 
 note. I see it is wafered, not sealed. That makes 
 it more likely. Wafers are flour, and I 've known 
 a serious illness to be communicated in a piece 
 of plum-cake. I never had the measles. How 
 my head throbs ! You cannot be too cautious, 
 dear Louisa, what you do under such cir- 
 cum 
 
 I am a little better than when I broke off at 
 the last word. Your good sense will point out 
 to you that the deficient syllables should be 
 
 145 
 
"stances." Circumstances. If I am incoherent, 
 
 impute it to alarm. I will walk in the air 
 
 I am not much refreshed. The air seemed 
 hot and muggy. Somehow I feel quite irritable 
 
 — there is no word in English — a la variole — 
 we have no phrase to answer it — smallpoxical 
 comes the nearest. Maybe 't was worse than the 
 measles what Charles has. I will send for Mr. 
 Asbury. 
 
 I have seen the apothecary. He pronounces 
 my complaint to be, as I feared, of the variola 
 kind, but gives me hopes I shall not be much 
 marked. I hope we shall get well together. But 
 at my time of life it is attended with more 
 hazards. Whatever becomes of me, I shall leave 
 the world without a harsh thought of you. It 
 was only a girlish imprudence. I am quite faint. 
 Two pimples more come out within this last 
 minute. Mary is crying. She looks red. So 
 does Becky. I must go to bed. 
 
 Yours in constant pain. C. L. 
 
 You will see by my will, if it comes to that 
 
 — I bear you no ill w . Oh! 
 
 DLXXXII. — TO CHARLES C. CLARKE 
 
 December, 1828. 
 
 My dear three C.'s, — The way from Southgate 
 to Colney Hatch thro' the unfrequentedest black- 
 berry paths that ever concealed their coy bunches 
 
 146 
 
from a truant citizen, we have accidentally fallen 
 upon — the giant tree by Cheshunt we have 
 missed, but keep your chart to go by, unless you 
 will be our conduct — • at present I am disabled 
 from further flights than just to skirt round Clay 
 Hill, with a peep at the fine back woods, by 
 strained tendons, got by skipping a skipping-rope 
 at 5 3 — heu mihi non sum qualis. But do you know, 
 now you come to talk of walks, a ramble of four 
 hours or so — there and back — to the willow 
 and lavender plantations at the south corner of 
 Northaw Church by a well dedicated to Saint 
 Claridge, with the clumps of finest moss rising 
 hillock fashion, which I counted to the number 
 of two hundred and sixty, and are called " Clar- 
 idge's covers " — the tradition being that that 
 saint entertained so many angels or hermits 
 there, upon occasion of blessing the waters? The 
 legends have set down the fruits spread upon that 
 occasion, and in the Black Book of St. Albans 
 some are named which are not supposed to have 
 been introduced into this island till a century 
 later. But waiving the miracle, a sweeter spot is 
 not in ten counties round ; you are knee-deep 
 in clover, that is to say, if you are not above 
 a middling man's height ; from this paradise, 
 making a day of it, you go to see the ruins of an 
 old convent at March Hall, where some of the 
 painted glass is yet whole and fresh. 
 
 If you do not know this, you do not know 
 the capabilities of this country ; you may be said 
 
 H7 
 
to be a stranger to Enfield. I found it out one 
 morning in October, and so delighted was I that 
 I did not get home before dark, well a-paid. 
 
 I shall long to show you the clump meadows, 
 as they are called ; we might do that, without 
 reaching March Hall. When the days are longer, 
 we might take both, and come home by Forest 
 Cross, so skirt over Pennington and the cheerful 
 little village of Churchley to Forty Hill. 
 
 But these are dreams till summer ; meanwhile 
 we should be most glad to see you for a lesser 
 excursion — say, Sunday next, you and another, 
 or if more, best on a weekday with a notice, but 
 o' Sundays, as far as a leg of mutton goes, most 
 welcome. We can squeeze out a bed. Edmon- 
 ton coaches run every hour, and my pen has run 
 out its quarter. Heartily farewell. 
 
 DLXXXIII.— TO T. N. TALFOURD 
 
 End of 1828. 
 
 Dear Talfourd, — You could not have told 
 me of a more friendly thing than you have been 
 doing. I am proud of my namesake. I shall take 
 care never to do any dirty action, pick pockets, 
 or anyhow get myself hanged, for fear of reflect- 
 ing ignominy upon your young Chrisom. I have 
 now a motive to be good. I shall not omnis 
 moriar ; — my name borne down the black gulf 
 of oblivion. 
 
 I shall survive in eleven letters, five more than 
 148 
 
Caesar. Possibly I shall come to be knighted, or 
 more ! Sir C. L. Talfourd, Bart. ! 
 
 Yet hath it an authorish twang with it, which 
 will wear out my name for poetry. Give him a 
 smile from me till I see him. 
 
 If you do not drop down before, some day in 
 the week after next I will come and take one 
 night's lodging with you, if convenient, before 
 you go hence. You shall name it. We are in 
 town to-morrow speciali gratia, but by no ar- 
 rangement can get up near you. 
 
 Believe us both, with greatest regards, yours 
 and Mrs. Talfourd's, 
 
 Charles Lamb-Philo-Talfourd 
 
 I come as near it as I can. 
 
 DLXXXIV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 About 1828. 
 
 Dear Moxon, — Much thanks for the books. 
 Hood is excellent. Mr. Westwood, who wishes 
 to consult you about his son, will acquaint you 
 with our change of life. Mary's very bad spirits 
 drove me upon it, and it seems to answer admir- 
 ably. 
 
 We shall be happy to see you at our table and 
 hole ; say, the Sunday after next. 
 
 Yours very truly, C. L. 
 
 149 
 
DLXXXV. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 [No date.] 
 
 Dear H., — I don't know by your letter 
 whether you are resident at Newington Green, 
 nor at what number. So I discharge this, as a 
 surer shot, at Russell Court. Your almanack is 
 funny ; it only disappointed me as being not an 
 almanack. What a one you might make ! em- 
 bracing a real calendar, with astrological ridicule, 
 predictions like Tom Brown's " for every day in 
 the week." The only information I receive from 
 this is that New Year's Day happened this year 
 on the first of January. I do not see the days 
 even set down on which I ought to go to church, 
 the Dominical Letter : fie ! I will only add that 
 Enfield is still here, with its accustomed shoul- 
 ders of mutton, fine Geneva tipple, &c. 
 
 So hoping some time for a fine day's walk 
 with you, I rest, C. L. 
 
 Mary's love to both of you. 
 
 DLXXXVL — TO GEORGE DYER 
 
 January, 1829. 
 
 Dear Dyer, — My very good friend, and 
 Charles Clarke's father-in-law, Vincent Novello, 
 wishes to shake hands with you. Make him 
 play you a tune. He is a damn'd fine musician, 
 and, what is better, a good man and true. He 
 
 150 
 
will tell you how glad we should be to have 
 Mrs. Dyer and you here for a few days. Our 
 young friend, Miss Isola, has been here holy- 
 daymaking, but leaves us to-morrow. 
 
 Yours ever, Ch. Lamb 
 
 DLXXXVII. — TO B. W. PROCTER 
 
 January 19, 1829. 
 
 My dear Procter, — I am ashamed to have 
 not taken the drift of your pleasant letter, which 
 I find to have been pure invention. But jokes 
 are not suspected in Boeotian Enfield. We are 
 plain people ; and our talk is of corn, and cattle, 
 and Waltham markets. Besides, I was a little 
 out of sorts when I received it. The fact is, I am 
 involved in a case which has fretted me to 
 death ; and I have no reliance, except on you, 
 to extricate me. I am sure you will give me 
 your best legal advice, having no professional 
 friend besides but Robinson and Talfourd, with 
 neither of whom at present I am on the best 
 terms. 
 
 My brother's widow left a will, made during 
 the lifetime of my brother, in which I am 
 named sole executor, by which she bequeaths 
 forty acres of arable property, which it seems 
 she held under Covert Baron, unknown to my 
 brother, to the heirs of the body of Elizabeth 
 Dowden, her married daughter by a first hus- 
 band, in fee-simple, recoverable by fine — in- 
 
vested property, mind ; for there is the difficulty 
 — subject to leet and quitrent ; in short, worded 
 in the most guarded terms, to shut out the 
 property from Isaac Dowden, the husband. In- 
 telligence has just come of the death of this 
 person in India, where he made a will, entailing 
 this property (which seem'd entangled enough 
 already) to the heirs of his body, that should 
 not be born of his wife ; for it seems by the law 
 in India, natural children can recover. They 
 have put the cause into Exchequer process, here 
 removed by Certiorari from the native Courts ; 
 and the question is, whether I should, as execu- 
 tor, try the cause here, or again re-remove it 
 to the Supreme Sessions at Bangalore (which 
 I understand I can, or plead a hearing before 
 the Privy Council here). As it involves all the 
 little property of Elizabeth Dowden, I am anxious 
 to take the fittest steps, and what may be least 
 expensive. Pray assist me, for the case is so 
 embarrassed, that it deprives me of sleep and 
 appetite. M. Burney thinks there is a case like 
 it in Chapt. 170, sect. 5, in Fearne's Contingent 
 Remainders. Pray read it over with him dispas- 
 sionately, and let me have the result. The com- 
 plexity lies in the questionable power of the 
 husband to alienate in usum enfeoffments whereof 
 he was only collaterally seized, &c. 
 
 I had another favour to beg, which is the 
 beggarliest of beggings. 
 
 A few lines of verse for a young friend's album 
 152 
 
(six will be enough). M. Burney will tell you 
 who she is I want 'em for. A girl of gold. Six 
 
 lines — make 'em eight — signed Barry C . 
 
 They need not be very good, as I chiefly want 
 'em as a foil to mine. But I shall be seriously 
 obliged by any refuse scrap. We are in the last 
 ages of the world, when St. Paul prophesied 
 that women should be " headstrong, lovers of 
 their own wills, having albums." I fled hither to 
 escape the albumean persecution, and had not 
 been in my new house twenty-four hours, when 
 the daughter of the next house came in with 
 a friend's album to beg a contribution, and 
 the following day intimated she had one of her 
 own. Two more have sprung up since. If 
 I take the wings of the morning and fly unto 
 the uttermost parts of the earth, there will 
 albums be. New Holland has albums. But the 
 age is to be complied with. M. B. will tell 
 you the sort of girl I request the ten lines for. 
 Somewhat of a pensive cast, what you admire. 
 The lines may come before the law question, as 
 that cannot be determined before Hilary Term, 
 and I wish your deliberate judgment on that. 
 The other may be flimsy and superficial. And 
 if you have not burnt your returned letter, pray 
 re-send it to me, as a monumental token of my 
 stupidity. 'T was a little unthinking of you to 
 touch upon a sore subject. Why, by dabbling in 
 those accursed albums, I have become a byword 
 of infamy all over the kingdom. I have sicken'd 
 
 153 
 
decent women for asking me to write in albums. 
 There be "dark jests" abroad, Master Cornwall; 
 and some riddles may live to be clear'd up. And 
 't is not every saddle is put on the right steed ; 
 and forgeries and false Gospels are not peculiar 
 to the age following the Apostles. And some 
 tubs don't stand on their right bottoms. Which 
 is all I wish to say in these ticklish times — and 
 so your servant, Chs. Lamb 
 
 note 
 
 [At the end of the first paragraph the words "/'« usum 
 enfeoffments whereof he was only collaterally seized, &c," are 
 in another hand. Lamb wrote beneath them : " The above is 
 some of M. Burney's memoranda which he has left me, and 
 you may cut out and give him." — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 DLXXXVIII. — TO B. W. PROCTER 
 
 January 22, 1829. 
 
 Don't trouble yourself about the verses. Take 
 'em coolly as they come. Any day between this 
 and midsummer will do. Ten lines the extreme. 
 There is no mystery in my incognita. She has 
 often seen you, though you may not have ob- 
 served a silent brown girl, who for the last 
 twelve years has run wild about our house in 
 her Christmas holidays. She is Italian by name 
 and extraction. Ten lines about the blue sky of 
 her country will do, as it's her foible to be 
 proud of it. But they must not be over-courtly 
 or lady-fied, as she is with a lady who says to 
 
 154 
 
her " go and she goeth ; come and she cometh." 
 Item, I have made her a tolerable Latinist. The 
 verses should be moral too, as for a clergyman's 
 family. She is called Emma Isola. 
 
 I approve heartily of your turning your four 
 volumes into a lesser compass. 'Twill Sybillise 
 the gold left. I shall, I think, be in town in 
 a few weeks, when I will assuredly see you. I will 
 put in here loves to Mrs. Procter and the Anti- 
 Capulets, because Mary tells me I omitted them 
 in my last. I like to see my friends here. I have 
 put my lawsuit into the hands of an Enfield 
 practitioner — a plain man, who seems perfectly 
 to understand it, and gives me hopes of a favour- 
 able result. 
 
 Rumour tells us that Miss Holcroft is mar- 
 ried ; though the varlet has not had the grace 
 to make any communication to us on the 
 subject. Who is Badman, or Bed'em ? Have 
 I seen him at Montacute's ? I hear he is a great 
 chymist. I am sometimes chymical myself. 
 A thought strikes me with horror. Pray heaven 
 he may not have done it for the sake of trying 
 chymical experiments upon her, — young female 
 subjects are so scarce ! Louisa would make a 
 capital shot. An't you glad about Burke's case? 
 We may set off the Scotch murders against the 
 Scotch novels — Hare, the Great Un-hanged. 
 
 Martin Burney is richly worth your knowing. 
 He is on the top scale of my friendship ladder, 
 on which an angel or two is still climbing, and 
 
 l 55 
 
some, alas ! descending. I am out of the literary 
 world at present. Pray, is there anything new 
 from the admired pen of the author of the 
 Pleasures of Hope? Has Mrs. He-mans (double 
 masculine) done anything pretty lately ? Why 
 sleeps the lyre of Hervey, and of Alaric Watts ? 
 Is the muse of L. E. L. silent ? Did you see 
 a sonnet of mine in Blackwood's last ? Curious 
 construction! Elaborata facilitas ! And now I'll 
 tell. 'Twas written for the Gem; but the ed- 
 itors declined it, on the plea that it would shock 
 all mothers ; so they published the Widow instead. 
 I am born out of time. I have no conjecture 
 about what the present world calls delicacy. I 
 thought Rosamund Gray was a pretty modest 
 thing. Hessey assures me that the world would 
 not bear it. I have lived to grow into an inde- 
 cent character. When my sonnet was rejected, 
 I exclaimed, " Damn the age ; I will write for 
 antiquity!" Erratum in sonnet: Last line but 
 something, for tender, read tend. The Scotch do 
 not know our law terms; but I find some remains 
 of honest, plain, old writing lurking there still. 
 They were not so mealy-mouthed as to refuse 
 my verses. Maybe, 't is their oatmeal. 
 
 Blackwood sent me jCio for the drama. 
 Somebody cheated me out of it next day ; and 
 my new pair of breeches, just sent home, crack- 
 ing at first putting on, I exclaimed, in my wrath, 
 " All tailors are cheats, and all men are tailors." 
 Then I was better. [Balance of letter lost.] 
 
 156 
 
DLXXXIX. — TO B. W. PROCTER 
 
 1829. 
 
 And now, Procter, I will tell you a story. 
 Hierocles, the Sicilian Tyrant, who lived in the 
 thirtieth Olympiad, just seven hundred and sixty 
 years ante a.d., by the Gregorian Computation, 
 having won the Prize in a Race of Mules, be- 
 sought the Poet Simonides, with the incentive 
 moreover of a donative of 1 200 Sesterces, which 
 might be about ^12.7.3^ of our money, to 
 write him an Olympic Hymn in praise of the 
 mules. But Simonides, declining to vulgarise his 
 Muse with the mention of any such mongrels, 
 the Tyrant (which signifies in the Greek of that 
 age only king) rounds him in the ear that he 
 shall have 8000 sesterces if he will touch up his 
 beasts handsomely. Whereupon Simonides — 
 the " tender Simonides," as antiquity delights to 
 phrase him — began to relent, and stringing his 
 golden lyre begins a lofty ode to the cattle with — 
 
 Hail ! daughters of the swift-winged steed. 
 
 Sinking, you see, one part of their genealogy. 
 Now for the application. What I told you, dear 
 Procter, about my young friend was nothing but 
 the exact truth. But I sunk the circumstance 
 that her mother was a negro, or half-caste — 
 which convinces me, what I always thought, that 
 something of the tender genius of Simonides lives 
 again in my strains. Mary corrects me, and will 
 
 157 
 
have it that the lady's mother was a Hindostanee 
 half-caste, and no negress, but was I to send you 
 wool-gathering over the vast plains watered by 
 the Ganges, or the more bewildering wilds of 
 Timbuctoo, to search for images ? ' 
 
 DXC — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 January 28, 1829. 
 
 Dear Allsop, — Old Star is setting. Take him 
 and cut him into Little Stars. Nevertheless the 
 extinction of the greater light is not by the lesser 
 light (Stella, or Mrs. Star) apprehended so nigh, 
 but that she will be thankful if you can let young 
 Scintillation (Master Star) twinkle down by the 
 coach on Sunday, to catch the last glimmer of 
 the decaying parental light. No news is good 
 news ; so we conclude Mrs. A. and little a are 
 doing well. Our kindest loves, C. L. 
 
 DXCI. — TO B. W. PROCTER 
 
 January 29, 1829. 
 
 When Miss Ouldcroft (who is now Mrs. Bed- 
 dam, and Bed — damn'd to her !) was at Enfield, 
 which she was in summer-time, and owed her 
 health to its sun and genial influences, she visited 
 (with young lady-like impertinence) a poor 
 
 p In this extract Lamb, who was himself always writing verses for 
 his young friends' albums, wanted Procter to do likewise for Emma 
 Isola, in whose veins was a tinge of blood darker than European. — 
 Alfred Ainger.] 
 
 158 
 
man's cottage that had a pretty baby (O the 
 yearnling !), and gave it fine caps and sweet- 
 meats. On a day, broke into the parlour our 
 two maids uproarious. " O ma'am, who do you 
 think Miss Ouldcroft (they pronounce it Hol- 
 croft) has been working a cap for ?" " A child," 
 answered Mary, in true Shandean female sim- 
 plicity. " It 's the man's child as was taken up 
 for sheep-stealing." Miss Ouldcroft was stag- 
 gered, and would have cut the connection ; but 
 by main force I made her go and take her leave 
 of her protegee (which I only spell with a g be- 
 cause I can't make a pretty y). I thought, if she 
 went no more, the Abactor or Abactor's wife 
 (vide Ainsworth) would suppose she had heard 
 something ; and I have delicacy for a sheep- 
 stealer. The overseers actually overhauled a mut- 
 ton-pie at the baker's (his first, last, and only 
 hope of mutton-pie), which he never came to 
 eat, and thence inferred his guilt. 
 
 Per occasionem cuius I framed the sonnet ; ob- 
 serve its elaborate construction. I was four days 
 about it. 
 
 THE GYPSY'S MALISON 
 
 Suck, baby, suck, mother's love grows by giving, 
 
 Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; 
 Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living 
 
 Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. 
 Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses, 
 
 Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; 
 Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses 
 
 Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. 
 
 l S9 
 
Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces, 
 Choke the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging ; 
 
 Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses 
 Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging. 
 
 So sang a wither'd sibyl energetical, 
 
 And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical. 
 
 Barry, study that sonnet. It is curiously and per- 
 versely elaborate. 'T is a choking subject, and 
 therefore the reader is directed to the structure 
 of it. See you? and was this a fourteener to be 
 rejected by a trumpery annual? forsooth, 't would 
 shock all mothers ; and may all mothers, who 
 would so be shocked, bed dom'd ! as if mothers 
 were such sort of logicians as to infer the future 
 hanging of their child from the theoretical hang- 
 ibility (or capacity of being hanged, if the judge 
 pleases) of every infant born with a neck on. 
 Oh B. C, my whole heart is faint, and my whole 
 head is sick (how is it?) at this damned, cant- 
 ing, unmasculine unbxwdy (I had almost said) 
 age ! Don't show this to your child's mother or 
 I shall be Orpheusized, scattered into Hebras. 
 Damn the King, lords, commons, and specially 
 (as I said on Muswell Hill on a Sunday when 
 I could get no beer a quarter before one) all 
 bishops, priests, and curates. Vale. 
 
 DXCIL — TO B. W. PROCTER 
 
 Early 1829. 
 
 The comings in of an incipient conveyancer 
 160 
 
are not adequate to the receipt of three two- 
 penny-post non-paids in a week. Therefore, after 
 this, I condemn my stub to long and deep silence, 
 or shall awaken it to write to lords. Lest those 
 raptures in this honeymoon of my correspond- 
 ence, which you avow for the gentle person of 
 my Nuncio, after passing through certain natural 
 grades, as Love, Love and Water, Love with the 
 chill off, then subsiding to that point which the 
 heroic suitor of his wedded dame, the noble- 
 spirited Lord Randolph in the play, declares to 
 be the ambition of his passion, a reciprocation 
 of " complacent kindness," — should suddenly 
 plump down (scarce staying to bait at the mid 
 point of indifference, so hungry it is for distaste) 
 to a loathing and blank aversion, to the render- 
 ing probable such counter expressions as this, — 
 " Damn that infernal twopenny postman" (words 
 which make the not yet glutted inamorato " lift 
 up his hands and wonder who can use them"). 
 While, then, you are not ruined, let me assure 
 thee, O thou above the painter, and next only 
 under Giraldus Cambrensis, the most immortal 
 and worthy to be immortal Barry, thy most 
 ingenious and golden cadences do take my fancy 
 mightily. They are at this identical moment 
 under the snip and the paste of the fairest hands 
 (bating chilblains) in Cambridge, soon to be 
 transplanted to Suffolk, to the envy of half of the 
 young ladies in Bury. 
 
 But tell me, and tell me truly, gentle swain, 
 161 
 
is that Isola Bella a true spot in geographical 
 denomination, or a floating Delos in thy brain ? 
 Lurks that fair island in verity in the bosom of 
 Lake Maggiore, or some other with less poetic 
 name, which thou hast Cornwallized for the 
 occasion ? And what if Maggiore itself be but a 
 coinage of adaptation ? Of this, pray resolve me 
 immediately, for my albumess will be catechised 
 on this subject ; and how can I prompt her ? 
 Lake Leman, I know, and Lemon Lake (in a 
 punch bowl) I have swum in, though those 
 lymphs be long since dry. But Maggiore may be 
 in the moon. Unsphinx this riddle for me, for 
 my shelves have no gazetteer. And mayest thou 
 never murder thy father-in-law in the Trivia of 
 Lincoln's Inn New Square Passage, where Searl 
 Street and the Street of Portugal embrace, nor 
 afterwards make absurd proposals to the Widow 
 M. But I know you abhor any such notions. 
 Nevertheless so did O-Edipus (as Admiral Bur- 
 ney used to call him, splitting the diphthong in 
 spite or ignorance) for that matter. C. L. 
 
 DXCIII. — TO B. W. PROCTER 
 
 February 2, 1829. 
 
 Facundissime Poeta ! quanquam istiusmodi 
 epitheta oratoribus potius quam poetis attinere 
 facile scio — tamen, facundissime! 
 
 Commoratur nobiscum iamdiu, in agro En- 
 feldiense, scilicet, leguleius futurus, illustrissimus 
 
 162 
 
Martinus Burneius, otium agens, negotia nomi- 
 nalia, et officinam clientum vacuam, paululum 
 fugiens. Orat, implorat te — nempe, Martinus — 
 ut si (quod Dii faciant) forte fortuna, absente 
 ipso, advenerit tardus cliens, eum certiorem feceris 
 per literas hue missas. Intelligisne? an me An- 
 glice et barbarice ad te hominem perdoctum 
 scribere oportet ? 
 
 Si status de franco tenemento datur avo, et in 
 eodem facto si mediate vel immediate datur 
 haeredibus vel haeredibus corporis dicti avi, postrema 
 haec verba sunt Limitationis, non Perquisitionis. 
 
 Dixi. Carlagnulus 
 
 note 
 
 [Mr. Stephen Gwynn has made the following translation : 
 
 Most eloquent Poet : though I know well such epithet befits orators 
 rather than poets — and yet, most eloquent ! 
 
 There has been staying with us this while past at our country seat of 
 Enfield, to wit, the future attorney, the illustrious Martin Burney, taking 
 his leisure, flying for a space from his nominal occupations, and his office 
 empty of clients. He — that is, Martin — begs and entreats of you that 
 if (heaven send it so !) by some stroke of fortune, in his absence there 
 should arrive a belated client, you would inform him by letter here. Do 
 you understand ? or must I write in barbarous English to a scholar like 
 you ? 
 
 If an estate in freehold is given to an ancestor, and if in the same deed 
 directly or indirectly the gift is made to the heir or heirs of the body of 
 the said ancestor, these last words have the force of Limitation not of 
 Purchase. 
 
 I have spoken. Charles Lamb. ] 
 
 DXCIV.— TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON 
 
 February 27, 1829. 
 
 Dear R., — Expectation was alert on the receit 
 163 
 
of your strange-shaped present, while yet undis- 
 closed from its fuse envelope. Some said, 'tis 
 a viol da Gamba, others pronounced it a fiddle. I 
 myself hoped it a liquer case pregnant with eau 
 de vie and such odd nectar. When midwifed 
 into daylight, the gossips were at loss to pro- 
 nounce upon its species. Most took it for a 
 marrow spoon, an apple scoop, a banker's guinea 
 shovel. At length its true scope appeared, its 
 drift — to save the backbone of my sister stoop- 
 ing to scuttles. A philanthropic intent, borrowed 
 no doubt from some of the colliers. You save 
 people's backs one way, and break 'em again by 
 loads of obligation. The spectacles are delicate 
 and Vulcanian. No lighter texture than their 
 steel did the cuckoldy blacksmith frame to catch 
 Mrs. Vulcan and the Captain in. For ungalled 
 forehead, as for back unbursten, you have Mary's 
 thanks. Marry, for my own peculium of obliga- 
 tion, 't was supererogatory. A second part of 
 Pamela was enough in conscience. Two Pa- 
 melas in a house is too much without two Mr. 
 B.'s to reward 'em. 
 
 Mary, who is handselling her new aerial 
 perspectives upon a pair of old worsted stock- 
 ings trod out in Cheshunt lanes, sends love : I, 
 great good liking. Bid us a personal farewell 
 before you see the Vatican. 
 
 Chas. Lamb 
 
 164 
 
DXCV. — TO SAMUEL ROGERS 
 
 March 22, 1829. 
 
 My dear Sir, — I have but lately learned, by 
 letter from Mr. Moxon, the death of your bro- 
 ther. For the little I had seen of him, I greatly 
 respected him. I do not even know how recent 
 your loss may have been, and hope that I do 
 not unseasonably present you with a few lines 
 suggested to me this morning by the thought 
 of him. I beg to be most kindly remembered 
 to your remaining brother, and to Miss Rogers. 
 Yours truly, Charles Lamb 
 
 Rogers, of all the men that I have known 
 
 But slightly, who have died, your brother's loss 
 
 Touched me most sensibly. There came across 
 
 My mind an image of the cordial tone 
 
 Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest 
 
 I more than once have sate ; and grieve to think, 
 
 That of that threefold cord one precious link 
 
 By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest. 
 
 Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem; 
 
 A magistrate who, while the evil-doer 
 
 He kept in terror, could respect the poor, 
 
 And not for every trifle harass them — 
 
 As some, divine and laic, too oft do. 
 
 This man's a private loss and public too. 
 
 DXCVL — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 March 25, 1829. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I send you by desire Darley's 
 very poetical poem. You will like, I think, the 
 
 165 
 
novel headings of each scene. Scenical direc- 
 tions in verse are novelties. With it I send a few 
 duplicates, which are therefore no value to me, 
 and may amuse an idle hour. Read Christmas, 
 'tis the production of a young author, who reads 
 all your writings. A good word from you about 
 his little book would be as balm to him. It has 
 no pretensions, and makes none. But parts are 
 pretty. In Field 's Appendix turn to a poem called 
 the Kangaroo. It is in the best way of our old 
 poets, if I mistake not. I have just come from 
 town, where I have been to get my bit of quar- 
 terly pension. And have brought home, from 
 stalls in Barbican, the old Pilgrim's Progress with 
 the prints — Vanity Fair, &c. — now scarce. 
 Four shillings. Cheap. And also one of whom 
 I have oft heard and had dreams, but never saw 
 in the flesh — that is, in sheepskin — the whole 
 theologic works of — 
 
 Thomas Aquinas ! 
 
 My arms aked with lugging it a mile to the 
 stage, but the burden was a pleasure, such as old 
 Anchises was to the shoulders of ./Eneas — or 
 the Lady to the Lover in old romance, who hav- 
 ing to carry her to the top of a high mountain 
 — the price of obtaining her — clamber'd with 
 her to the top, and fell dead with fatigue. 
 
 O the glorious old Schoolmen ! 
 
 There must be something in him. Such great 
 names imply greatness. Who hath seen Michael 
 
 1 66 
 
Angelo's things — of us that never pilgrimaged 
 to Rome — and yet which of us disbelieves his 
 greatness. How I will revel in his cobwebs and 
 subtleties, till my brain spins ! 
 
 N. B. I have writ in the old Hamlet, offer it 
 to Mitford in my name, if he have not seen it. 
 'T is woefully below our editions of it. But keep 
 it, if you like. (What is M. to me?) 
 
 I do not mean this to go for a letter, only to ap- 
 prize y ou, that the parcel is booked for you this 2 5 
 March, 1829, from the Four Swans Bishopsgate. 
 
 With both our loves to Lucy and A. K. 
 
 Yours ever, C. L. 
 
 DXCVII. — TO MISS SARAH JAMES 
 
 April, 1829. 
 
 We have just got your letter. I think Mother 
 Reynolds will go on quietly, Mrs. Scrimpshaw 
 having kittened. The name of the late Laureat 
 was Henry James Pye, and when his first Birth- 
 day Ode came out, which was very poor, some- 
 body being asked his opinion of it, said, — 
 
 And when the Pye was open'd 
 
 The birds began to sing, 
 And was not this a dainty dish 
 
 To set before the King ! 
 
 Pye was brother to old Major Pye, and father 
 to Mrs. Arnold, and uncle to a General Pye, all 
 friends of Miss Kelly. Pye succeeded Thos. 
 Warton, Warton succeeded Wm. Whitehead, 
 
 167 
 
Whitehead succeeded Colley Cibber, Cibber 
 succeeded Eusden, Eusden succeeded Thos. 
 Shadwell, Shadwell succeeded Dryden, Dryden 
 succeeded Davenant, Davenant God knows 
 whom. There never was a Rogers a Poet Lau- 
 reat ; there is an old living poet of that name, 
 a banker as you know, author of the Pleasures 
 of Memory, where Moxon goes to breakfast in 
 a fine house in the Green Park, but he was never 
 Laureat. Southey is the present one, and for 
 anything I know or care, Moxon may succeed 
 him. We have a copy of Xmas for you, so you 
 may give your own to Mary as soon as you 
 please. We think you need not have exhibited 
 your mountain shyness before M. B. He is 
 neither shy himself, nor patronizes it in others. 
 So with many thanks, good-bye. Emma comes 
 on Thursday. C. L. 
 
 The Poet Laureat, whom Davenant suc- 
 ceeded was Rare Ben Jonson, who I believe 
 was the first regular Laureat with the appoint- 
 ment of ^ioo a year and a Butt of Sack or 
 Canary — so add that to my little list. — C. L. 
 
 DXCVIII. — TO HENRY C. ROBINSON 
 
 April 10, 1829. 
 
 Dear Robinson, — We are afraid you will slip 
 from us from England without again seeing us. 
 It would be charity to come and see me. I have 
 
 168 
 
these three days been laid up with strong rheu- 
 matic pains, in loins, back, shoulders. I shriek 
 sometimes from the violence of them. I get scarce 
 any sleep, and the consequence is, I am restless, 
 and want to change sides as I lie, and I cannot 
 turn without resting on my hands, and so turning 
 all my body all at once like a log with a lever. 
 While this rainy weather lasts, I have no hope 
 of alleviation. I have tried flannels and embro- 
 cation in vain. Just at the hip-joint the pangs 
 sometimes are so excruciating that I cry out. It 
 is as violent as the cramp, and far more continu- 
 ous. I am ashamed to whine about these com- 
 plaints to you, who can ill enter into them. But 
 indeed they are sharp. You go about, in rain or 
 fine at all hours without discommodity. I envy 
 you your immunity at a time of life not much 
 removed from my own. But you owe your ex- 
 emption to temperance, which it is too late for 
 me to pursue. I in my life time have had my 
 good things. Hence my frame is brittle — yours 
 strong as brass. I never knew any ailment you 
 had. You can go out at night in all weathers, 
 sit up all hours. Well, I don't want to moralise. 
 I only wish to say that if you are enclined to a 
 game at Doubly Dumby, I would try and bolster 
 up myself in a chair for a rubber or so. My days 
 are tedious, but less so and less painful than my 
 nights. May you never know the pain and diffi- 
 culty I have in writing so much. Mary, who is 
 most kind, joins in the wish. C. Lamb 
 
 169 
 
DXCIX. — TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON 
 
 April 17, 1829. 
 
 I do confess to mischief. It was the subtlest 
 diabolical piece of malice heart of man has con- 
 trived. I have no more rheumatism than that 
 poker. Never was freer from all pains and aches. 
 Every joint sound, to the tip of the ear from the 
 extremity of the lesser toe. The report of thy 
 torments was blown circuitously here from 
 Bury. I could not resist the jeer. I conceived 
 you writhing, when you should just receive my 
 congratulations. How mad you'd be! Well, 
 it is not in my method to inflict pangs. I leave 
 that to heaven. But in the existing pangs of a 
 friend, I have a share. His disquietude crowns 
 my exemption. I imagine you howling, and 
 pace across the room, shooting out my free arms, 
 legs, &c. [here Lamb makes four slanting marks 
 resembling shorthand], this way and that way, 
 with an assurance of not kindling a spark of pain 
 from them. I deny that Nature meant us to 
 sympathise with agonies. Those face-contortions, 
 retortions, distortions, have the merriness of 
 antics. Nature meant them for farce — not so 
 pleasant to the actor indeed, but Grimaldi cries 
 when we laugh, and 'tis but one that suffers to 
 make thousands rejoyce. 
 
 You say that shampooing is ineffectual. But 
 per se it is good, to show the introvolutions, 
 extravolutions, of which the animal frame is 
 
 170 
 
capable. To show what the creature is recept- 
 ible of, short of dissolution. 
 
 You are worst of nights, a'nt you ? 
 
 'T will be as good as a sermon to you to lie 
 abed all this night, and meditate the subject of 
 the day. 'T is Good Friday. How appropriate ! 
 
 Think when but your little finger pains you, 
 what ****** endured to whitewash you and 
 the rest of us. 
 
 Nobody will be the more justified for your 
 endurance. You won't save the soul of a mouse. 
 'T is a pure selfish pleasure. 
 
 You never was rack'd, was you ? I should like 
 an authentic map of those feelings. 
 
 You seem to have the flying gout. 
 
 You can scarcely scrue a smile out of your 
 face — can you ? I sit at immunity, and sneer 
 ad libitum. 
 
 'T is now the time for you to make good reso- 
 lutions. I may go on breaking 'em, for anything 
 the worse I find myself. 
 
 Your doctor seems to keep you on the long 
 cure. Precipitate healings are never good. 
 
 Don't come while you are so bad. I shan't 
 be able to attend to your throes and the dumbee 
 at once. 
 
 I should like to know how slowly the pain 
 goes off. But don't write, unless the motion will 
 be likely to make your sensibility more exquisite. 
 
 Your affectionate and truly healthy friend, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 171 
 
Mary thought a letter from me might amuse 
 you in your torment. 
 
 DC — TO GEORGE DYER 
 
 April 29, 1829. 
 
 Dear Dyer, — As well as a bad pen can do it, 
 I must thank you for your friendly attention to 
 the wishes of our young friend Emma, who was 
 packing up for Bury when your sonnet arrived, 
 and was too hurried to express her sense of its 
 merits. I know she will treasure up that and 
 your second communication among her choicest 
 rarities, as from her grandfather's friend, whom 
 not having seen, she loves to hear talked of; the 
 second letter shall be sent after her, with our first 
 parcel to Suffolk, where she is, to us, alas ! dead 
 and Bury'd : we sorely miss her. Should you at 
 any hour think of four or six lines to send her, 
 addressed to herself simply, naming her grand- 
 sire, and to wish she may pass through life as 
 much respected, with your own "G. Dyer" at 
 the end, she would feel rich indeed, for the 
 nature of an album asks for verses that have not 
 been in print before; but this quite at your con- 
 venience : and to be less trouble to yourself, four 
 lines would be sufficient. Enfield is come out in 
 summer beauty. Come when you will, and we 
 will give you a bed; Emma has left hers, you 
 know. I remain, my dear Dyer, your affectionate 
 friend, Charles Lamb 
 
 172 
 
DCL — TO THOMAS HOOD 
 
 May, 1829. 
 
 Dear Hood, — We will look out for you on 
 Wednesday, be sure, tho' we have not eyes like 
 Emma, who, when I made her sit with her back 
 to the window to keep her to her Latin, literally 
 saw round backwards every one that past, and, 
 O, [that] she were here to jump up and shriek 
 out, " There are the Hoods ! " We have had two 
 pretty letters from her, which I long to show 
 you — together with Enfield in her May beauty. 
 
 Loves to Jane. 
 
 \ Here follow rough caricatures of Charles and his 
 sister, and\ " I can't draw no better." 
 
 DCIL — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 Calamy is good reading. Mary is always thank- 
 ful for books in her way. I won't trouble you 
 for any in my way yet, having enough to read. 
 Young Hazlitt lives, at least his father does, at 3 
 or 36 [36 I have it down, with the 6 scratch' d 
 out] Bouverie Street, Fleet Street. If not to be 
 found, his mother's address is, Mrs. Hazlitt, Mrs. 
 Tomlinson's, Potters Bar. At one or other he 
 must be heard of. 
 
 We shall expect you with the full moon. 
 Meantime, our thanks. C. L. 
 
 We go on very quietly, &c. 
 173 
 
DCIII. — TO WALTER WILSON 
 
 May 28, 1829. 
 
 Dear W., — Introduce this, or omit it, as you 
 like. I think I wrote better about it in a letter 
 to you from India House. If you have that, per- 
 haps out of the two I could patch up a better 
 thing, if you 'd return both. But I am very 
 poorly, and have been harassed with an illness of 
 my sister's. 
 
 The Ode was printed in the New Times nearly 
 the end of 1825, and I have only omitted some 
 silly lines. Call it a corrected copy. 
 
 Yours ever, C. Lamb 
 
 Put my name to either or both, as you like. 
 
 DCIV. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 June 3, 1829. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I am very much grieved in- 
 deed for the indisposition of poor Lucy. Your 
 letter found me in domestic troubles. My sister 
 is again taken ill, and I am obliged to remove 
 her out of the house for many weeks, I fear, 
 before I can hope to have her again. I have 
 been very desolate indeed. My loneliness is a 
 little abated by our young friend Emma having 
 just come here for her holydays, and a school- 
 fellow of hers that was, with her. Still the 
 house is not the same, tho' she is the same. 
 
 *74 
 
Mary had been pleasing herself with the pro- 
 spect of seeing her at this time ; and with all 
 their company, the house feels at times a fright- 
 ful solitude. May you and I in no very long 
 time have a more cheerful theme to write about, 
 and congratulate upon a daughter's and a sister's 
 perfect recovery. Do not be long without tell- 
 ing me how Lucy goes on. I have a right to 
 call her by her quaker-name, you know. 
 
 Emma knows that I am writing to you, and 
 begs to be remembered to you with thankful- 
 ness for your ready contribution. Her album is 
 filling apace. But of her contributors one, al- 
 most the flower of it, a most amiable young 
 man and late acquaintance of mine, has been 
 carried off by consumption, on return from one 
 of the Azores islands, to which he went with 
 hopes of mastering the disease, came back im- 
 proved, went back to a most close and confined 
 counting house, and relapsed. His name was 
 Dibdin, grandson of the songster. 
 
 You will be glad to hear that Emma, tho' 
 unknown to you, has given the highest satis- 
 faction in her little place of governante in a 
 clergyman's family, which you may believe by 
 the parson and his lady drinking poor Mary's 
 health on her birthday, tho' they never saw her, 
 merely because she was a friend of Emma's, and 
 the vicar also sent me a brace of partridges. 
 
 To get out of home themes, have you seen 
 Southey's Dialogues? His lake descriptions, and 
 
 17S 
 
the account of his library at Keswick, are very 
 fine. But he needed not have called up the 
 Ghost of More to hold the conversations with, 
 which might as well have pass'd between A and 
 B, or Caius and Lucius. It is making too free 
 with a defunct Chancellor and Martyr. 
 
 I feel as if I had nothing farther to write about 
 — O ! I forget the prettiest letter I ever read, 
 that I have received from Pleasures of Memory 
 Rogers, in acknowledgment of a sonnet I sent 
 him on the Loss of his Brother. It is too long 
 to transcribe, but I hope to shew it you some 
 day, as I hope some time again to see you, when 
 all of us are well. Only it ends thus : " We 
 were nearly of an age (he was the elder). He 
 was the only person in the world in whose eyes 
 I always appeared young." 
 
 I will now take my leave with assuring you 
 that I am most interested in hoping to hear 
 favourable accounts from you. 
 
 With kindest regards to A. K. and you, 
 
 Yours truly, C. L. 
 
 DCV. — TO WILLIAM AYRTON 
 
 June 10, 1829. 
 
 My dear Ayrton, — It grieves me that I can- 
 not join you. Besides that I have two young 
 friends in the house, I expect a London visitor 
 on Thursday. I hope to see H. C. R. here before 
 he goes, and you before we all go. 
 
 176 
 
God bless you. Health to the Party. Love to 
 Mrs. A. C. Lamb 
 
 DCVI. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 1829. 
 
 Dear Allsop, — I will find out your Bijoux some 
 day. At present, I am sorry to say, we have 
 neither of us very good spirits ; and I cannot 
 look to any pleasant expeditions. 
 
 You speak of your trial as a known thing, but 
 I am quite in the dark about it ; but wish you 
 a safe issue most heartily. 
 
 Our loves to Mrs. Allsop and children. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 DCVII.— TO WILLIAM HAZLITT, JUNIOR 
 
 June, 1829. 
 
 My dear Wm., — I am very uncomfortable, 
 and when Emma leaves me, I shall wish to be 
 quite alone ; therefore pray tell your mother I re- 
 gret that I cannot see her here this time, but hope 
 to see her when times are better with me. The 
 young ladies are very pleasant, but my spirits have 
 much ado to keep pace with theirs. I decidedly 
 wish to be alone, or I know of none I should 
 rather see than your mother. Make my best ex- 
 cuse. Emma will explain to you the state of my 
 wretched spirits. Yours, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 177 
 
DCVIII. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 At midsummer or soon after (I will let you 
 know the previous day), I will take a day with 
 you in the purlieus of my old haunts. No of- 
 fence has been taken, any more than meant. My 
 house is full at present, but empty of its chief 
 pride. She is dead to me for many months. But 
 when I see you, then I will say, Come and 
 see me. With undiminished friendship to you 
 both, Your faithful but queer, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 How you frighted me ! Never write again, 
 " Coleridge is dead," at the end of a line, and 
 tamely come in with — " to his friends" at the 
 beginning of another. Love is quicker, and fear 
 from love, than the transition ocular from line 
 to line. 
 
 DCIX. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 Enfield Chase Side, Saturday, 25 July a.d. 1829 — n a.m. 
 
 There — a fuller, plumper, juiceier date never 
 dropt from Idumean palm. Am I in the dateive 
 case now ? if not, a fig for dates, which is more 
 than a date is worth. I never stood much affected 
 to these limitary specialties. Least of all since the 
 date of my superannuation. 
 
 What have I with Time to do ? 
 Slaves of desks, 't was meant for you. 
 
 178 
 
Dear B. B., — Your handwriting has conveyed 
 much pleasure to me in report of Lucy's restora- 
 tion. Would I could send you as good news of 
 my poor Lucy ! But some wearisome weeks I 
 must remain lonely yet. I have had the loneliest 
 time near ten weeks, broken by a short apparition 
 of Emma for her holydays, whose departure only 
 deepen' d the returning solitude, and by ten days 
 I have past in town. But town, with all my 
 native hankering after it, is not what it was. The 
 streets, the shops are left, but all old friends 
 are gone. And in London I was frightfully con- 
 vinced of this as I past houses and places — 
 empty caskets now. I have ceased to care almost 
 about anybody. The bodies I cared for are in 
 graves, or dispersed. My old clubs, that lived so 
 long and flourish'd so steadily, are crumbled 
 away. When I took leave of our adopted young 
 friend at Charing Cross, 'twas heavy unfeeling 
 rain, and I had nowhere to go. Home have I 
 none, and not a sympathising house to turn to in 
 the great city. Never did the waters of the heaven 
 pour down on a forlorner head. Yet I tried ten 
 days at a sort of a friend's house, but it was large 
 and straggling — one of the individuals of my old 
 long knot of friends, card-players, pleasant com- 
 panions — that have tumbled to pieces into dust 
 and other things — and I got home on Thurs- 
 day, convinced that I was better to get home to 
 my hole at Enfield, and hide like a sick cat in 
 my corner. Less than a month I hope will bring 
 
 179 
 
home Mary. She is at Fulham, looking better 
 in her health than ever, but sadly rambling, and 
 scarce showing any pleasure in seeing me, or cu- 
 riosity when I should come again. But the old 
 feelings will come back again, and we shall drown 
 old sorrows over a game at picquet again. But 
 't is a tedious cut out of a life of sixty-four, to 
 lose twelve or thirteen weeks every year or two. 
 And to make me more alone, our ill-temper'd 
 maid is gone, who, with all her airs, was yet a home 
 piece of furniture, a record of better days ; the 
 young thing that has succeeded her is good and 
 attentive, but she is nothing — and I have no one 
 here to talk over old matters with. Scolding and 
 quarreling have something of familiarity and a 
 community of interest — they imply acquaint- 
 ance — they are of resentment, which is of the 
 family of dearness. I can neither scold nor quarrel 
 at this insignificant implement of household ser- 
 vices ; she is less than a cat, and just better than 
 a deal dresser. What I can do, and do overdo, is 
 to walk, but deadly long are the days — these 
 summer all-day days, with but a half hour's can- 
 dlelight and no firelight. I do not write, tell 
 your kind inquisitive Eliza, and can hardly read. 
 In the ensuing Blackwood will be an old rejected 
 farce of mine, which may be new to you, if you 
 see that same dull medley. What things are all 
 the magazines now ! I contrive studiously not to 
 see them. The popular New Monthly is perfect 
 trash. 
 
 180 
 
Poor Hessey, I suppose you see, has failed. 
 Hunt and Clarke too. Your Vulgar Truths will 
 be a good name ; and I think your prose must 
 please — me at least — but 'tis useless to write 
 poetry with no purchasers. 'T is cold work 
 authorship without something to puff one into 
 fashion. Could you not write something on 
 Quakerism — for Quakers to read — but nomi- 
 nally addrest to Non-Quakers ? explaining your 
 dogmas — waiting on the Spirit — by the ana- 
 logy of human calmness and patient waiting on 
 the judgment ? I scarcely know what I mean, 
 but to make Non-Quakers reconciled to your doc- 
 trines, by shewing something like them in mere 
 human operations — but I hardly understand my- 
 self, so let it pass for nothing. 
 
 I pity you for over-work, but I assure you 
 no-work is worse. The mind preys on itself, 
 the most unwholesome food. I brag'd formerly 
 that I could not have too much time. I have 
 a surfeit. With few years to come, the days 
 are wearisome. But weariness is not eternal. 
 Something will shine out to take the load off, 
 that flags me, which is at present intolerable. 
 I have killed an hour or two in this poor scrawl. 
 I am a sanguinary murderer of time, and would 
 kill him inch-meal just now. But the snake is 
 vital. Well, I shall write merrier anon. "T is 
 the present copy of my countenance I send — 
 and to complain is a little to alleviate. May you 
 enjoy yourself as far as the wicked world will let 
 
 181 
 
you — and think that you are not quite alone, 
 as I am. Health to Lucia and to Anna and kind 
 remembrances. Yours forlorn, C. L. 
 
 DCX. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 Late July, 1829. 
 
 My dear Allsop, — I thank you for thinking 
 of my recreation. But I am best here, I feel I 
 am. I have tried town lately, but came back 
 worse. Here I must wait till my loneliness has 
 its natural cure. Besides that, though I am not 
 very sanguine, yet I live in hopes of better news 
 from Fulham, and cannot be out of the way. 
 'T is ten weeks to-morrow. I saw Mary a week 
 since, she was in excellent bodily health, but 
 otherwise far from well. But a week or so may 
 give a turn. Love to Mrs. A. and children, and 
 fair weather accompany you. C. L. 
 
 DCXI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 September 22, 1829. 
 
 Dear Moxon, — If you can oblige me with 
 the Garrick Papers or Anne of Geierstein, I shall 
 be thankful. I am almost fearful whether my 
 sister will be able to enjoy any reading at present; 
 for since her coming home, after twelve weeks, 
 she has had an unusual relapse into the saddest 
 low spirits that ever poor creature had, and has 
 been some weeks under medical care. She is 
 
 182 
 
unable to see any yet. When she is better I shall 
 be very glad to talk over your ramble with you. 
 Have you done any sonnets? can you send me 
 any to overlook ? I am almost in despair ; Mary's 
 case seems so hopeless. Believe me yours, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 I do not want Mrs. Jameson or Lady Morgan. 
 
 DCXII. — TO JAMES GILLMAN 
 
 October 26, 1829. 
 
 Dear Gillman, — Allsop brought me your kind 
 message yesterday. How can I account for having 
 not visited Highgate this long time? Change of 
 place seemed to have changed me. How grieved 
 I was to hear in what indifferent health Cole- 
 ridge has been, and I not to know of it ! A little 
 school divinity, well applied, may be healing. I 
 send him honest Tom of Aquin ; that was always 
 an obscure great idea to me : I never thought or 
 dreamed to see him in the flesh, but t' other day 
 I rescued him from a stall in Barbican, and 
 brought him off in triumph. He comes to greet 
 Coleridge's acceptance, for his shoe-latchets I am 
 unworthy to unloose. Yet there are pretty pro's 
 and con's, and such unsatisfactory learning in 
 him. Commend me to the question of etiquette 
 
 — "utrum annunciatio debuerit fieri per angelum" 
 
 — Quaest. 30, Articulus 2. I protest, till now 
 I had thought Gabriel a fellow of some mark 
 
 183 
 
and livelihood, not a simple esquire, as I find 
 him. 
 
 Well, do not break your lay brains, nor I nei- 
 ther, with these curious nothings. They are nuts 
 to our dear friend, whom hoping to see at your 
 first friendly hint that it will be convenient, I 
 end with begging our very kindest loves to Mrs. 
 Gillman. We have had a sorry house of it here. 
 Our spirits have been reduced till we were at 
 hope's end what to do — obliged to quit this 
 house, and afraid to engage another, till in ex- 
 tremity I took the desperate resolve of kicking 
 house and all down, like Bunyan's pack; and 
 here we are in a new life at board and lodging, 
 with an honest couple our neighbours. We have 
 ridded ourselves of the cares of dirty acres ; and 
 the change, though of less than a week, has had 
 the most beneficial effects on Mary already. She 
 looks two years and a half younger for it. But we 
 have had sore trials. 
 
 God send us one happy meeting! 
 
 Yours faithfully, C. Lamb 
 
 DCXIII. — TO VINCENT NOVELLO 
 
 November 10, 1829. 
 
 Dear Fugue-ist, or bear'st thou rather Contra- 
 puntist? — We expect you four (as many as the 
 table will hold without squeeging) [squeezing] 
 at Mrs. Westwood's table d'hote on Thursday. 
 You will find the White House shut up, and us 
 
 184 
 
moved under the wing of the Phoenix, which 
 gives us friendly refuge. Beds for guests, marry, 
 we have none, but cleanly accomodings at the 
 Crown and Horseshoe. 
 
 Yours harmonically, C. L. 
 
 DCXIV. — TO WALTER WILSON 
 
 November 15, 1829. 
 
 My dear Wilson, — I have not opened a packet 
 of unknown contents for many years, that gave 
 me so much pleasure as when I disclosed your 
 three volumes. I have given them a careful peru- 
 sal, and they have taken their degree of classical 
 books upon my shelves. De Foe was always my 
 darling; but what darkness was I in as to far 
 the larger part of his writings ! I have now an 
 epitome of them all. I think the way in which 
 you have done the Life the most judicious you 
 could have pitched upon. You have made him 
 tell his own story, and your comments are in keep- 
 ing with the tale. Why, I never heard of such 
 a work as the Review. Strange that in my stall- 
 hunting days I never so much as lit upon an odd 
 volume of it. This circumstance looks as if they 
 were never of any great circulation. But I may 
 have met with 'em, and not knowing the prize, 
 overpast 'em. I was almost a stranger to the 
 whole history of Dissenters in those reigns, and 
 picked my way through that strange book the 
 Consolidator at random. How affecting are some 
 
 185 
 
of his personal appeals ! what a machine of pro- 
 jects he set on foot! and following writers have 
 picked his pocket of the patents. I do not under- 
 stand whereabouts in Roxana he himself left off. 
 I always thought the complete-tourist-sort of 
 description of the town she passes through on her 
 last embarkation miserably unseasonable and out 
 of place. I knew not they were spurious. En- 
 lighten me as to where the apocryphal matter 
 commences. I, by accident, can correct one A. 
 D., Family Instructor, vol. ii, 171 8; you say his 
 first volume had then reached the fourth edition; 
 now I have a fifth, printed for Eman. Matthews, 
 171 7. So have I plucked one rotten date, or 
 rather picked it up where it had inadvertently 
 fallen, from your flourishing date tree, the Palm 
 of Engaddi. I may take it for my pains. I think 
 yours a book which every public library must 
 have, and every English scholar should have. I 
 am sure it has enriched my meagre stock of the 
 author's works. I seem to be twice as opulent. 
 Mary is by my side just finishing the second vol- 
 ume. It must have interest to divert her away so 
 long from her modern novels. Colburn will be 
 quite jealous. 
 
 I was a little disappointed at my Ode to the 
 Treadmill not finding a place ; but it came out 
 of time. The two papers of mine will puzzle 
 the reader, being so akin. Odd that, never keep- 
 ing a scrap of my own letters, with some fifteen 
 years' interval I should nearly have said the 
 
 186 
 
same things. But I shall always feel happy in 
 having my name go down anyhow with De 
 Foe's, and that of his historiographer. I pro- 
 mise myself, if not immortality, yet diuternity of 
 being read in consequence. We have both had 
 much illness this year ; and feeling infirmities 
 and fretfulness grow upon us, we have cast off 
 the cares of housekeeping, sold off our goods, 
 and commenced boarding and lodging with a 
 very comfortable old couple next door to where 
 you found us. We use a sort of common table. 
 ' Nevertheless, we have reserved a private one for 
 an old friend ; and when Mrs. Wilson and you 
 revisit Babylon, we shall pray you to make it 
 yours for a season. Our very kindest remem- 
 brances to you both. 
 
 From your old friend and fellow-journalist, 
 now in two instances, C. Lamb 
 
 Hazlitt is going to make your book a basis 
 for a review of De Foe's Novels in the Edinbro' . 
 I wish I had health and spirits to do it. Hone 
 I have not seen, but I doubt not he will be 
 much pleased with your performance. I very 
 much hope you will give us an account of Dun- 
 ton, &c. But what I should more like to see 
 would be a Life and Times of Bunyan. Wish- 
 ing health to you and long life to your healthy 
 book, again I subscribe me, 
 
 Yours in verity, C. L. 
 
 187 
 
DCXV. — TO JAMES GILLMAN 
 
 November 29, 1829. 
 
 Pray trust me with the Church History , as well 
 as the Worthies. A moon shall restore both. 
 Also give me back " Him of Aquinum." In re- 
 turn you have the light of my countenance. Adieu. 
 
 P. S. A sister also of mine comes with it. 
 A son of Nimshi drives her. Their driving will 
 have been furious, impassioned. Pray God they 
 have not toppled over the tunnel ! I promise you 
 I fear their steed, bred out of the wind with- 
 out father, semi-Melchisedecish, hot, phaetontic. 
 From my country lodgings at Enfield. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 DCXVI. — TO JAMES GILLMAN 
 
 November 30, 1829. 
 
 Dear G., — The excursionists reached home, 
 and the good town of Enfield a little after four, 
 without slip or dislocation. Little has transpired 
 concerning the events of the back-journey, save 
 that on passing the house of 'Squire Mellish, situ- 
 ate a stone-bow's cast from the hamlet, Father 
 Westwood, with a good-natured wonderment, ex- 
 claimed, " I cannot think what is gone of Mr. 
 Mellish's rooks. I fancy they have taken flight 
 somewhere ; but I have missed them two or three 
 years past." All this while, according to his fel- 
 low-traveller's report, the rookery was darken- 
 
 188 
 
ing the air above with undiminished population, 
 and deafening all ears but his with their cawings. 
 But Nature has been gently withdrawing such 
 phenomena from the notice of Thomas West- 
 wood's senses, from the time he began to miss 
 the rooks. T. Westwood has passed a retired life 
 in this hamlet of thirty or forty years, living upon 
 the minimum which is consistent with gentility, 
 yet a star among the minor gentry, receiving the 
 bows of the trades-people and courtesies of the 
 alms-women daily. Children venerate him not 
 less for his external show of gentry, than they 
 wonder at him for a gentle rising endorsation of 
 the person, not amounting to a hump, or if a 
 hump, innocuous as the hump of the buffalo, and 
 coronative of as mild qualities. 'T is a throne on 
 which patience seems to sit — the proud perch 
 of a self-respecting humility, stooping with con- 
 descension. Thereupon the cares of life have 
 sate, and rid him easily. For he has thrid the 
 angustiae domus with dexterity. Life opened upon 
 him with comparative brilliancy. He set out as a 
 rider or traveller for a wholesale house, in which 
 capacity he tells of many hair-breadth escapes that 
 befell him ; one especially, how he rode a mad 
 horse into the town of Devizes ; how horse and 
 rider arrived in a foam, to the utter consterna- 
 tion of the expostulating hostlers, innkeepers, 
 &c. It seems it was sultry weather, piping hot ; 
 the steed tormented into frenzy with gadflies, 
 long past being roadworthy ; but safety and the 
 
 189 
 
interest of the house he rode for were incompat- 
 ible things ; a fall in serge cloth was expected ; 
 and a mad entrance they made of it. Whether 
 the exploit was purely voluntary, or partially ; or 
 whether a certain personal defiguration in the 
 man part of this extraordinary centaur (non-assist- 
 ive to partition of natures) might not enforce the 
 conjunction, I stand not to inquire. I look not 
 with 'skew eyes into the deeds of heroes. 
 
 The hosier that was burnt with his shop, in 
 Field-lane, on Tuesday night, shall have past to 
 heaven for me like a Marian Martyr, provided 
 always that he consecrated the fortuitous incre- 
 mation with a short ejaculation in the exit, as 
 much as if he had taken his state degrees of mar- 
 tyrdom in formd in the market vicinage. There 
 is adoptive as well as acquisitive sacrifice. Be the 
 animus what it might, the fact is indisputable, 
 that this composition was seen flying all abroad, 
 and mine host of Daintry may yet remember its 
 passing through his town, if his scores are not 
 more faithful than his memory. After this ex- 
 ploit (enough for one man), Thomas Westwood 
 seems to have subsided into a less hazardous oc- 
 cupation ; and in the twenty-fifth year of his age 
 we find him a haberdasher in Bow Lane : yet 
 still retentive of his early riding (though leaving 
 it to rawer stomachs), and Christmasly at night 
 sithence to this last, and shall to his latest Christ- 
 mas, hath he, doth he, and shall he, tell after 
 supper the story of the insane steed and the de- 
 
 190 
 
sperate rider. Save for Bedlam or Luke's no eye 
 could have guessed that melting day what house 
 he rid for. But he reposes on his bridles, and 
 after the ups and downs (metaphoric only) of a 
 life behind the counter — hard riding sometimes, 
 I fear, for poor T. W. — with the scrapings to- 
 gether of the shop, and one anecdote, he hath 
 finally settled at Enfield ; by hard economising, 
 gardening, building for himself, hath reared a 
 mansion, married a daughter, qualified a son for 
 a counting-house, gotten the respect of high and 
 low, served for self or substitute the greater par- 
 ish offices : hath a special voice at vestries ; and, 
 domiciliating us, hath reflected a portion of his 
 house-keeping respectability upon your humble 
 servants. We are greater, being his lodgers, than 
 when we were substantial renters. His name is 
 a passport to take off the sneers of the native 
 Enfielders against obnoxious foreigners. We 
 are endenizened. Thus much of T. Westwood 
 have I thought fit to acquaint you, that you may 
 see the exemplary reliance upon Providence with 
 which I entrusted so dear a charge as my own 
 sister to the guidance of a man that rode the 
 mad horse into Devizes. To come from his 
 heroic character, all the amiable qualities of do- 
 mestic life concentre in this tamed Bellerophon. 
 He is excellent over a glass of grog ; just as 
 pleasant without it; laughs when he hears a joke, 
 and when (which is much oftener) he hears it not; 
 sings glorious old sea-songs on festival nights ; 
 
 191 
 
and but upon a slight acquaintance of two years, 
 Coleridge, 1 is as dear a deaf old man to us, as old 
 Norris, rest his soul ! was after fifty. To him and 
 his scanty literature (what there is of it, sound} 
 have we flown from the metropolis and its cursed 
 annualists, reviewers, authors, and the whole 
 muddy ink press of that stagnant pool. 
 
 Now, Gillman again, you do not know the 
 treasure of the Fullers. I calculate on having 
 massy reading till Christmas. All I want here is 
 books of the true sort, not those things in boards 
 that moderns mistake for books — what they 
 club for at book-clubs. 
 
 I did not mean to cheat you with a blank side ; 
 but my eye smarts, for which I am taking med- 
 icine, and abstain, this day at least, from any 
 aliments but milk-porridge, the innocent taste 
 of which I am anxious to renew after a half- 
 century's disacquaintance. If a blot fall here 
 like a tear, it is not pathos, but an angry eye. 
 
 Farewell, while my specilla are sound. 
 
 Yours and yours, C. Lamb 
 
 DCXVII. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 December 8, 1829. 
 
 My dear B. B., — You are very good to have 
 been uneasy about us, and I have the satisfaction 
 to tell you that we are both in better health and 
 
 1 Possibly Lamb forgot here, and thought he was writing to Cole- 
 ridge. — Ed. 
 
 192 
 
spirits than we have been for a year or two past ; 
 I may say, than we have been since we have been 
 at Enfield. The cause may not appear quite ade- 
 quate, when I tell you that a course of ill-health 
 and spirits brought us to the determination of 
 giving up our house here, and we are boarding 
 and lodging with a worthy old couple, long in- 
 habitants of Enfield, where everything is done for 
 us without our trouble, further than a reason- 
 able weekly payment. We should have done so 
 before, but it is not easy to flesh and blood to 
 give up an ancient establishment, to discard 
 old Penates, and from house-keepers to turn 
 house-sharers. (N. B. We are not in the work- 
 house.) Diocletian in his garden found more 
 repose than on the imperial seat of Rome, and 
 the nob of Charles the Fifth aked seldomer under 
 a monk's cowl than under the diadem. With 
 such shadows of assimilation we countenance our 
 degradation. With such a load of dignify'd cares 
 just removed from our shoulders, we can the 
 more understand and pity the accession to yours, 
 by the advancement to an assigneeship. I will 
 tell you honestly, B. B., that it has been long my 
 deliberate judgment that all bankrupts, of what 
 denomination civil or religious whatever, ought 
 to be hang'd. The pity of mankind has for ages 
 run in a wrong channel, and has been diverted 
 from poor creditors (how many I have known 
 sufferers ! Hazlitt has just been defrauded of 
 j£ioo by his bookseller - friend's breaking) to 
 
 J 93 
 
scoundrel debtors. I know all the topics, that 
 distress may come upon an honest man without 
 his fault ; that the failure of one that he trusted 
 was his calamity, &c, &c. Then let both be 
 hang'd. O how careful it would make traders ! 
 These are my deliberate thoughts after many 
 years' experience in matters of trade. 
 
 What a world of trouble it would save you, 
 if Friend ***** had been immediately hang'd, 
 without benefit of clergy, which (being a Quaker 
 I presume) he could not reasonably insist upon. 
 Why, after slaving twelve months in your assign- 
 business, you will be enabled to declare seven 
 pence in the pound in all human probability. 
 B. B., he should be hanged. Trade will never 
 re-flourish in this land till such a law is estab- 
 lished. I write big not to save ink but eyes, mine 
 having been troubled with reading thro' three 
 folios of old Fuller in almost as few days, and I 
 went to bed last night in agony, and am writing 
 with a vial of eye-water before me, alternately 
 dipping in vial and inkstand. This may enflame 
 my zeal against bankrupts — but it was my specu- 
 lation when I could see better. Half the world's 
 misery (Eden else) is owing to want of money, 
 and all that want is owing to bankrupts. I de- 
 clare I would, if the state wanted practitioners, 
 turn hangman myself, and should have great 
 pleasure in hanging the first after my salutary 
 law should be establish'd. 
 
 I have seen no annuals and wish to see none. 
 194 
 
I like your fun upon them, and was quite pleased 
 with Bowles's sonnet. Hood is or was at Brigh- 
 ton, but a note, prose or rhime, to him, Robert 
 Street, Adelphi, I am sure would extract a copy 
 of his, which also I have not seen. Wishing you 
 and yours all health, I conclude while these frail 
 glasses are to me — eyes. C. L. 
 
 DCXVIII. — TO BASIL MONTAGUE 
 
 Dear M., — I have received the enclosed from 
 Miss James. Her sister, Mrs. Trueman, is a most 
 worthy person. I know all their history. They 
 are four daughters of them, daughters of a Welch 
 clergyman of the greatest respectability, who dy- 
 ing, the family were obliged to look about them, 
 and by some fatality they all became nurses at 
 Mr. Warburton's, Hoxton. Mrs. Parsons, one of 
 them, is patronized by Dr. Tuthill, who can speak 
 to her character. I can safely speak to Miss James's 
 for fifteen years or more. Trueman has been 
 a keeper at Warburton's. Himself and wife are 
 willing to undertake the entire charge at ^200 
 a year. I think you hardly pay less now. They 
 propose to take a cottage near the Regent's Park, 
 to which by the omnibuses you can have short and 
 easy access at any hour. I will call upon you to- 
 morrow morning at office. Pray, think upon it 
 in the meanwhile. I really think it desirable. 
 Yours ever, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 195 
 
DCXIX. — TO JAMES S. KNOWLES 
 
 Dear Kn, — I will not see London again with- 
 out seeing your pleasant play. In meanwhile, 
 pray send three or four orders to a lady who can't 
 afford to pay, Miss James, No. i Grove Road, 
 Lisson Grove, Paddington, a day or two before ; 
 and come and see us some evening, with my hith- 
 erto uncorrupted and honest bookseller, Moxon. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 LETTER DCXX 
 
 [/« two parts] 
 I. — CHARLES LAMB TO WM. WORDSWORTH 
 
 January 22, 1830. 
 
 And is it a year since we parted from you at 
 the steps of Edmonton stage ? There are not now 
 the years that there used to be. The tale of the 
 dwindled age of men, reported of successional 
 mankind, is true of the same man only. We do 
 not live a year in a year now. 'T is a punctum starts. 
 The seasons pass us with indifference. Spring 
 cheers not, nor winter heightens our gloom, au- 
 tumn hath foregone its moralities ; they are hey- 
 pass re-pass [as] in a show-box. Yet as far as last 
 year occurs back, for they scarce shew a reflex 
 now, they make no memory as heretofore — 
 't was sufficiently gloomy. Let the sullen no- 
 thing pass. 
 
 196 
 
Suffice it that after sad spirits prolonged thro' 
 many of its months, as it called them, we have 
 cast our skins, have taken a farewell of the pomp- 
 ous, troublesome trifle call'd housekeeping, and 
 are settled down into poor boarders and lodgers 
 at next door with an old couple, the Baucis and 
 Baucida of dull Enfield. Here we have nothing 
 to do with our victuals but to eat them, with the 
 garden but to see it grow, with the tax-gatherer 
 but to hear him knock, with the maid but to 
 hear her scolded. Scot and lot, butcher, baker, 
 are things unknown to us save as spectators of the 
 pageant. We are fed we know not how, quiet- 
 ists, confiding ravens. We have the otium pro 
 dignitate, a respectable insignificance. Yet in the 
 self-condemned obliviousness, in the stagnation, 
 some molesting yearnings of life, not quite kill'd, 
 rise, prompting me that there was a London, 
 and that I was of that old Jerusalem. In dreams 
 I am in Fleetmarket, but I wake and cry to sleep 
 again. I die hard, a stubborn Eloisa in this de- 
 testable Paraclete. What have I gained by health ? 
 intolerable dulness. What by early hours and mod- 
 erate meals ? — a total blank. O never let the 
 lying poets be believed, who 'tice men from the 
 chearful haunts of streets — or think they mean 
 it not of a country village. In the ruins of Pal- 
 myra I could gird myself up to solitude, or muse 
 to the snorings of the Seven Sleepers, but to have 
 a little teasing image of a town about one, coun- 
 try folks that do not look like country folks, 
 
 197 
 
shops two yards square, half a dozen apples and 
 two penn'orth of overlook'd gingerbread for the 
 lofty fruiterers of Oxford Street — and, for the 
 immortal book and print stalls, a circulating 
 library that stands still, where the shew-picture 
 is a last year's valentine, and whither the fame 
 of the last ten Scotch novels has not yet travell'd 
 (marry, they just begin to be conscious of the 
 Redgauntlet), to have a new plaster' d flat church, 
 and to be wishing that it was but a cathedral. 
 The very blackguards here are degenerate. The 
 topping gentry, stock-brokers. The passengers 
 too many to ensure your quiet, or let you go 
 about whistling, or gaping — too few to be the 
 fine indifferent pageants of Fleet Street. 
 
 Confining, room-keeping thickest winter is 
 yet more bearable here than the gaudy months. 
 Among one's books at one's fire by candle one 
 is soothed into an oblivion that one is not in the 
 country, but with the light the green fields re- 
 turn, till I gaze, and in a calenture can plunge 
 myself into Saint Giles's. O let no native Lon- 
 doner imagine that health, and rest, and inno- 
 cent occupation, interchange of converse sweet, 
 and recreative study, can make the country any- 
 thing better than altogether odious and detest- 
 able. A garden was the primitive prison till man 
 with Promethean felicity and boldness luckily 
 sinn'd himself out of it. Thence follow'd Baby- 
 lon, Nineveh, Venice, London, haberdashers, 
 goldsmiths, taverns, playhouses, satires, epigrams, 
 
 198 
 
puns — these all came in on the town part, and 
 the thither side of innocence. Man found out 
 inventions. 
 
 From my den I return you condolence for 
 your decaying sight, not for anything there is to 
 see in the country, but for the miss of the pleas- 
 ure of reading a London newspaper. The poets 
 are as well to listen to, anything high may, nay 
 must, be read out — you read it to yourself with 
 an imaginary auditor — but the light paragraphs 
 must be glid over by the proper eye, mouthing 
 mumbles their gossamery substance. 'T is these 
 trifles I should mourn in fading sight. A news- 
 paper is the single gleam of comfort I receive 
 here, it comes from rich Cathay with tidings of 
 mankind. Yet I could not attend to it read out 
 by the most beloved voice. But your eyes do 
 not get worse, I gather. O for the collyrium of 
 Tobias inclosed in a whiting's liver to send you 
 with no apocryphal good wishes ! The last long 
 time I heard from you, you had knock'd your 
 head against something. Do not do so. For 
 your head (I do not flatter) is not a nob, or the 
 top of a brass nail, or the end of a ninepin — 
 unless a Vulcanian hammer could fairly batter 
 a Recluse out of it, then would I bid the smirch' d 
 god knock and knock lustily, the two-handed 
 skinker. 
 
 What a nice long letter Dorothy has written ! 
 Mary must squeeze out a line propria manu, but 
 indeed her fingers have been incorrigibly nervous 
 
 199 
 
to letter-writing for a long interval. 'T will 
 please you all to hear that, tho' I fret like a lion 
 in a net, her present health and spirits are better 
 than they have been for some time past : she is 
 absolutely three years and a half younger, as I tell 
 her, since we have adopted this boarding plan. 
 Our providers are an honest pair, dame Westwood 
 and her husband — he, when the light of pro- 
 sperity shined on them, a moderately thriving 
 haberdasher within Bow Bells, retired since with 
 something under a competence, writes himself 
 parcel gentleman, hath borne parish offices, sings 
 fine old sea songs at threescore and ten, sighs 
 only now and then when he thinks that he has 
 a son on his hands about fifteen, whom he finds 
 a difficulty in getting out into the world, and 
 then checks a sigh with muttering, as I once 
 heard him prettily, not meaning to be heard, " I 
 have married my daughter, however," — takes 
 the weather as it comes, outsides it to town in 
 severest season, and o' winter nights tells old 
 stories not tending to literature, how comfort- 
 able to author-rid folks ! and has one anecdote, 
 upon which and about forty pounds a year he 
 seems to have retired in green old age. It was 
 how he was a rider in his youth, travelling for 
 shops, and once (not to baulk his employer's 
 bargain) on a sweltering day in August, rode 
 foaming into Dunstable upon a mad horse to the 
 dismay and expostulary wonderment of inn- 
 keepers, ostlers, &c, who declared they would 
 
 200 
 
not have bestrid the beast to win the Darby. 
 Understand the creature gall'd to death and de- 
 speration by gadflies, cormorants winged, worse 
 than beset Inachus' daughter. This he tells, this 
 he brindles and burnishes on a' winter's eves; 
 'tis his star of set glory, his rejuvenescence to 
 descant upon. Far from me be it {dii avertani} 
 to look a gift story in the mouth, or cruelly to 
 surmise (as those who doubt the plunge of Cur- 
 tius) that the inseparate conjuncture of man and 
 beast, the centaur-phenomenon that stagger'd 
 all Dunstable, might have been the effect of un- 
 romantic necessity, that the horse-part carried 
 the reasoning, willy-nilly, that needs must when 
 such a devil drove, that certain spiral configura- 
 tions in the frame of Thomas Westwood un- 
 friendly to alighting, made the alliance more 
 forcible than voluntary. Let him enjoy his fame 
 for me, nor let me hint a whisper that shall dis- 
 mount Bellerophon. Put case he was an invol- 
 untary martyr, yet if in the fiery conflict he 
 buckled the soul of a constant haberdasher to 
 him, and adopted his flames, let accident and 
 he share the glory ! You would all like Thomas 
 Westwood. 
 
 How weak is painting to describe a man ! 
 201 
 
Say that he stands four feet and a nail high by 
 his own yard measure, which like the sceptre of 
 Agamemnon shall never sprout again, still you 
 have no adequate idea, nor when I tell you that 
 his dear hump, which I have favour' d in the pic- 
 ture, seems to me of the buffalo — indicative and 
 repository of mild qualities, a budget of kind- 
 nesses, still you have not the man. Knew you old 
 Norris of the Temple, sixty years ours and our 
 father's friend ; he was not more natural to us 
 than this old W., the acquaintance of scarce more 
 weeks. Under his roof now ought I to take my 
 rest, but that back-looking ambition tells me I 
 mightyet be a Londoner. Well, if we ever do move, 
 we have encumbrances the less to impede us : all 
 our furniture has faded under the auctioneer's 
 hammer, going for nothing like the tarnish'd 
 frippery of the prodigal, and we have only a spoon 
 or two left to bless us. Clothed we came into 
 Enfield, and naked we must go out of it. I would 
 live in London shirtless, bookless. Henry Crabb 
 is at Rome, advices to that effect have reach'd 
 Bury. But by solemn legacy he bequeath'd at 
 parting (whether he should live or die) a turkey 
 of Suffolk to be sent every succeeding Xmas to 
 us and divers other friends. What a genuine old 
 bachelor's action ! I fear he will find the air of 
 Italy too classic. His station is in the Hartz for- 
 est, his soul is be-Goetbed. Miss Kelly we never 
 see ; Talfourd not this half-year ; the latter flour- 
 ishes, but the exact number of his children, God 
 
 202 
 
forgive me, I have utterly forgotten, we single 
 people are often out in our count there. Shall 
 I say two ? One darling I know they have lost 
 within a twelvemonth, but scarce known to me 
 by sight, and that was a second child lost. We 
 see scarce anybody. We have just now Emma 
 with us for her holydays : you remember her play- 
 ing at brag with Mr. Quillinan at poor Monk- 
 house's ! She is grown an agreeable young wo- 
 man ; she sees what I write, so you may understand 
 me with limitations. She was our inmate for a 
 twelvemonth, grew natural to us, and then they 
 told us it was best for her to go out as a govern- 
 ess, and so she went out, and we were only two 
 of us, and our pleasant house-mate is changed 
 to an occasional visitor. If they want my sister to 
 go out (as they call it) there will be only one 
 of us. Heaven keep us all from this acceding to 
 unity ! 
 
 Can I cram loves enough to you all in this lit- 
 tle O ? Excuse particularizing. C. L. 
 
 II. — MARY LAMB TO MISS WORDSWORTH 
 
 My dear Miss Wordsworth, — Charles has left 
 me space to fill up with my own poor scribble, 
 which I must do as well as I can, being quite 
 out of practice ; and after he has been reading 
 his queer letter out to us I can hardly put down 
 in a plain style all I had to tell you ; how pleas- 
 ant your handwriting was to me. He has lumped 
 
 203 
 
you all together in one rude remembrance at the 
 end ; but I beg to send my love individually and 
 by name to Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, to Miss 
 Hutchinson, whom we often talk of, and think 
 of as being with you always, to the dutiful good 
 daughter and patient amanuensis Dora, and even 
 to Johanna, whom we have not seen, if she will 
 accept it. Charles has told you of my long ill- 
 ness and our present settlement, which I assure 
 you is very quiet and comfortable to me, and to 
 him too, if he would own it. 
 
 I am very sorry we shall not see John, but I 
 never go to town, nor my brother but at his 
 quarterly visits at the India House; and when 
 he does, he finds it melancholy, so many of our 
 old friends being dead or dispersed, and the very 
 streets, he says, altering every day. 
 
 Many thanks for your letter and the nice news 
 in it, which I should have replied to more at 
 large than I see he has done. I am sure it de- 
 served it. He has not said a word about your 
 intentions for Rome, which I sincerely wish you 
 health one day to accomplish. In that case we 
 may meet by the way. We are so glad to hear 
 dear little William is doing well. If you knew 
 how happy your letters made us you would write 
 I know more frequently. Pray think of this. 
 How chearfully should we pay the postage every 
 week. Your affectionate, 
 
 Mary Lamb 
 
 204 
 
DCXXI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 February 21, 1 8 30. 
 
 Dear M., — I came to town last week, but 
 could not stretch so far as you. A letter has just 
 come from Mrs. Williams to say that Emma is 
 so poorly that she must have long holydays here. 
 It has agitated us so much, and we shall expect 
 her so hourly, that you shall excuse me to 
 Wordsworth for not coming up ; we are both 
 nervous and poorly. Your punctual newspapers 
 are our bit of comfort. Adieu, till better times. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 Ryle comes on Sunday week. Can you come 
 with him? See him. 
 
 DCXXII.— TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 February 25, 1830. 
 
 Dear B. B., — To reply to you by return of 
 post, I must gobble up my dinner, and dispatch 
 this in propria persona to the office, to be in in 
 time. So take it from me hastily, that you are 
 perfectly welcome to furnish A. C. with the scrap, 
 which I had almost forgotten writing. The more 
 my character comes to be known, the less my 
 veracity will come to be suspected. Time every 
 day clears up some suspected narrative of Herodo- 
 tus, Bruce, and others of us great travellers. 
 Why, that Joseph Paice was as real a person as 
 
 201; 
 
Joseph Hume, and a great deal pleasanter. A 
 careful observer of life, Bernard, has no need to 
 invent. Nature romances it for him. Dinner 
 plates rattle, and I positively shall incur indiges- 
 tion by carrying it half concocted to the Post 
 House. Let me congratulate you on the spring 
 coming in, and do you in return condole with 
 me for the winter going out. When the old one 
 goes, seldom comes a better. I dread the pro- 
 spect of summer, with his all day long days. No 
 need of his assistance to make country places 
 dull. With fire and candle-light, I can dream 
 myself in Holborn. With lightsome skies shin- 
 ing in to bedtime, I cannot. This Meseck, and 
 these tents of Kedar — I would dwell in the skirts 
 of Jericho rather, and think every blast of the 
 coming-in mail a ram's horn. Give me old Lon- 
 don at fire and plague times, rather than these 
 tepid gales, healthy country air, and purposeless 
 exercise. Leg of mutton absolutely on the table. 
 Take our hasty loves and short farewell. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 DCXXIII. — TO MRS. WILLIAMS 
 
 February 26, 1830. 
 
 Dear Madam, — May God bless you for your 
 attention to our poor Emma ! I am so shaken 
 with your sad news I can scarce write. She is 
 too ill to be removed at present ; but we can only 
 say that if she is spared, when that can be prac- 
 
 206 
 
ticable, we have always a home for her. Speak 
 to her of it, when she is capable of understanding, 
 and let me conjure you to let us know, from day 
 to day, the state she is in. But one line is all we 
 crave. Nothing we can do for her, that shall not 
 be done. We shall be in the terriblest suspense. 
 We had no notion she was going to be ill. A line 
 from anybody in your house will much oblige us. 
 I feel for the situation this trouble places you in. 
 Can I go to her aunt, or do anything ? I do 
 not know what to offer. We are in great distress. 
 Pray relieve us, if you can, by somehow letting 
 us know. I will fetch her here, or anything. 
 Your kindness can never be forgot. Pray excuse 
 my abruptness. I hardly know what I write. 
 And take our warmest thanks. Hoping to hear 
 something, I remain, dear Madam, 
 
 Yours most faithfully, C. Lamb 
 
 Our grateful respects to Mr. Williams. 
 
 DCXXIV. — TO MRS. WILLIAMS 
 
 March i, 1830. 
 
 Dear Madam, — We cannot thank you enough. 
 Your two words " much better " were so consid- 
 erate and good. The good news affected my sister 
 to an agony of tears ; but they have relieved us 
 from such a weight. We were ready to expect the 
 worst, and were hardly able to bear the good 
 hearing. You speak so kindly of her, too, and 
 
 207 
 
think she may be able to resume her duties. We 
 were prepared, as far as our humble means would 
 have enabled us, to have taken her from all duties. 
 But far better for the dear girl it is that she should 
 have a prospect of being useful. 
 
 I am sure you will pardon my writing again ; 
 for my heart is so full that it was impossible to 
 refrain. Many thanks for your offer to write 
 again, should any change take place. I dare not 
 yet be quite out of fear, the alteration has been 
 so sudden. But I will hope you will have a respite 
 from the trouble of writing again. I know no 
 expression to convey a sense of your kindness. 
 We were in such a state expecting the post. I 
 had almost resolved to come as near you as Bury; 
 but my sister's health does not permit my absence 
 on melancholy occasions. But O, how happy will 
 she be to part with me, when I shall hear the 
 agreeable news that I may come and fetch her. 
 She shall be as quiet as possible. No restorative 
 means shall be wanting to restore her back to 
 you well and comfortable. 
 
 She will make up for this sad interruption of 
 her young friend's studies. I am sure she will — 
 she must — after you have spared her for a little 
 time. Change of scene may do very much for 
 her. I think this last proof of your kindness to 
 her in her desolate state can hardly make her love 
 and respect you more than she has ever done. O, 
 how glad shall we be to return her fit for her 
 occupation. 
 
 208 
 
Madam, I trouble you with my nonsense ; but 
 you would forgive me, if you knew how light- 
 hearted you have made two poor souls at Enfield, 
 that were gasping for news of their poor friend. 
 I will pray for you and Mr. Williams. Give our 
 very best respects to him, and accept our thanks. 
 We are happier than we hardly know how to 
 bear. God bless you ! My very kindest congratu- 
 lations to Miss Humphreys. 
 
 Believe me, dear madam, your ever obliged 
 servant, C. Lamb 
 
 DCXXV. — TO SARAH HAZLITT 
 
 March 4, 1830. 
 
 Dear Sarah, — I was meditating to come and 
 see you, but I am unable for the walk. We are 
 both very unwell, and under affliction for poor 
 Emma, who has had a very dangerous brain fever, 
 and is lying very ill at Bury, from whence I ex- 
 pect a summons to fetch her. We are very sorry 
 for your confinement. Any books I have are at 
 your service. I am almost, I may say quite, sure 
 that letters to India pay no postage, and may go 
 by the regular Post Office, now in St. Martin's 
 le Grand. I think any receiving house would 
 take them. 
 
 I wish I could confirm your hopes about Dick 
 Norris. But it is quite a dream. Some old Bencher 
 of his surname is made Treasurer for the year, I 
 suppose, which is an annual office. Norris was 
 
 209 
 
sub-treasurer, — quite a different thing. They 
 were pretty well in the summer, since when we 
 have heard nothing of them. Mrs. Reynolds is 
 better than she has been for years ; she is with a 
 disagreeable woman that she has taken a mighty 
 fancy to out of spite to a rival woman she used to 
 live and quarrel with ; she grows quite fat, they 
 tell me, and may live as long as I do, to be a tor- 
 menting rent-charge to my diminish'd income. 
 We go on pretty comfortably in our new plan. 
 I will come and have a talk with you when poor 
 Emma's affair is settled, and will bring books. 
 At present I am weak, and could hardly bring 
 my legs home yesterday after a much shorter 
 stroll than to Northaw. Mary has got her bon- 
 net on for a short expedition. May you get better, 
 as the spring comes on. She sends her best love 
 with mine. C. L. 
 
 DCXXVL — TO MRS. WILLIAMS 
 
 March 5, 1830. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I feel greatly obliged by your 
 letter of Tuesday, and should not have troubled 
 you again so soon, but that you express a wish 
 to hear that our anxiety was relieved by the as- 
 surances in it. You have indeed given us much 
 comfort respecting our young friend, but con- 
 siderable uneasiness respecting your own health 
 and spirits, which must have suffered under such 
 attention. Pray believe me that we shall wait in 
 
 210 
 
quiet hope for the time when I shall receive the 
 welcome summons to come and relieve you from 
 a charge, which you have executed with such 
 tenderness. We desire nothing so much as to 
 exchange it with you. Nothing shall be want- 
 ing on my part to remove her with the best 
 judgment I can, without (I hope) any necessity 
 for depriving you of the services of your valuable 
 housekeeper. Until the day comes, we entreat 
 that you will spare yourself the trouble of writ- 
 ing, which we should be ashamed to impose 
 upon you in your present weak state. Not hear- 
 ing from you, we shall be satisfied in believing 
 that there has been no relapse. Therefore we 
 beg that you will not add to your troubles by 
 unnecessary, though most kind, correspondence. 
 
 Till I have the pleasure of thanking you 
 personally, I beg you to accept these written 
 acknowledgments of all your kindness. With 
 respects to Mr. Williams and sincere prayers for 
 both your healths, I remain, 
 
 Your ever obliged servant, C. Lamb 
 
 My sister joins me in respects and thanks. 
 
 DCXXVII.— TO JAMES GILLMAN 
 
 March 8, 1830. 
 
 My dear G., — Your friend Battin (for I knew 
 him immediately by the smooth satinity of his 
 style) must excuse me for advocating the cause 
 
 211 
 
of his friends in Spitalfields. The fact is, I am 
 retained by the Norwich people, and have already 
 appeared in their paper under the signatures of 
 "Lucius Sergius," "Bluff," "Broad-Cloth," 
 " No-Trade-to-the-Woollen-Trade," " Anti- 
 plush," &c, in defence of druggets and long 
 camblets. And without this pre-engagement, I 
 feel I should naturally have chosen a side oppo- 
 site to , for in the silken seemingness of his 
 
 nature there is that which offends me. My flesh 
 tingles at such caterpillars. He shall not crawl 
 me over. Let him and his workmen sing the 
 old burthen, — 
 
 Heigh ho, ye weavers ! 
 
 for any aid I shall offer them in this emergency. 
 I was over Saint Luke's the other day with my 
 friend Tuthill, and mightily pleased with one of 
 his contrivances for the comfort and amelior- 
 ation of the students. They have double cells, 
 in which a pair may lie feet to feet horizontally, 
 and chat the time away as rationally as they can. 
 It must certainly be more sociable for them these 
 warm raving nights. The right-hand truckle in 
 one of these friendly recesses, at present vacant, 
 was preparing, I understood, for Mr. Irving. 
 Poor fellow ! it is time he removed from Pen- 
 tonville. I followed him as far as to Highbury 
 the other day, with a mob at his heels, calling 
 out upon Ermigiddon, who I suppose is some 
 Scotch moderator. He squinted out his favourite 
 
 212 
 
eye last Friday, in the fury of possession, upon a 
 poor woman's shoulders that was crying matches, 
 and has not missed it. The companion truck, as 
 far as I could measure it with my eye, would 
 conveniently fit a person about the length of 
 Coleridge, allowing for a reasonable drawing 
 up of the feet, not at all painful. Does he talk 
 of moving this quarter ? You and I have too 
 much sense to trouble ourselves with revelations ; 
 marry, to the same in Greek you may have some- 
 thing professionally to say. 
 
 Tell C. that he was to come and see us some 
 fine day. Let it be before he moves, for in his 
 new quarters he will necessarily be confined in 
 his conversation to his brother prophet. Con- 
 ceive the two Rabbis foot to foot, for there are 
 no Gamaliels there to affect a humbler posture ! 
 All are masters in that Patmos, where the law 
 is perfect equality — Latmos, I should rather say, 
 for they will be Luna's twin darlings ; her affec- 
 tion will be ever at the full. Well ; keep your 
 brains moist with gooseberry this mad March, 
 for the devil of exposition seeketh dry places. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [" He squinted out * * * ." Irving had sight only in one 
 eye, an obliquity caused, it is suggested, by lying when a baby 
 in a wooden cradle, the sides of which prevented the other 
 from gathering light. 
 
 " To the same in Greek." An atrocious pun, which I leave 
 to the reader to discover. Gillman was a doctor. — E. V. 
 Lucas.] 
 
 213 
 
DCXXV1IL— TO WILLIAM AYRTON 
 
 March 14, 1830. 
 
 My dear Ayrton, — Your letter, which was 
 only not so pleasant as your appearance would 
 have been, has revived some old images ; Phillips 
 (not the colonel), with his few hairs bristling up 
 at the charge of a revoke, which he declares im- 
 possible ; the old captain's significant nod over 
 the right shoulder (was it not ?) ; Mrs. Burney's 
 determined questioning of the score, after the 
 game was absolutely gone to the devil, the plain 
 but hospitable cold boiled-beef suppers at side- 
 board ; all which fancies, redolent of middle age 
 and strengthful spirits, come across us ever and 
 anon in this vale of deliberate senectitude,ycleped 
 Enfield. 
 
 You imagine a deep gulf between you and us ; 
 and there is a pitiable hiatus in kind between St. 
 James's Park and this extremity of Middlesex. 
 But the mere distance in turnpike roads is a trifle. 
 The roof of a coach swings you down in an hour 
 or two. We have a sure hot joint on a Sunday, 
 and when had we better ? I suppose you know 
 that ill health has obliged us to give up house- 
 keeping ; but we have an asylum at the very next 
 door — only twenty-four inches further from 
 town, which is not material in a country expe- 
 dition — where a table d'hote is kept for us, with- 
 out trouble on our parts, and we adjourn after 
 dinner, when one of the old world (old friends) 
 
 214 
 
drops casually down among us. Come and find 
 us out, and seal our judicious change with your 
 approbation, whenever the whim bites, or the sun 
 prompts. No need of announcement, for we are 
 sure to be at home. 
 
 I keep putting off the subject of my answer. 
 In truth I am not in spirits at present to see Mr. 
 Murray on such a business ; but pray offer him my 
 acknowledgments and an assurance that I should 
 like at least one of his propositions, as I have 
 so much additional matter for the Specimens, 
 as might make two volumes in all, or one (new 
 edition) omitting such better known authors as 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, Jonson, &c. 
 
 But we are both in trouble at present. A very 
 dear young friend of ours, who passed her Christ- 
 mas 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. 
 
 215 
 
Our very kindest loves to Mrs. A. and the 
 younger A.'s. 
 
 Your unforgotten, C. Lamb 
 
 DCXXIX. — TO MRS. WILLIAMS 
 
 March 22, 1830. 
 
 Dear Madam, — Once more I have to return 
 you thanks for a very kind letter. It has glad- 
 dened us very much to hear that we may have 
 hope to see our young friend so soon, and through 
 your kind nursing so well recovered. I sincerely 
 hope that your own health and spirits will not 
 have been shaken : you have had a sore trial 
 indeed, and greatly do we feel indebted to you 
 for all which you have undergone. If I hear 
 nothing from you in the meantime, I shall 
 secure myself a place in the Cornwallis Coach for 
 Monday. It will not be at all necessary that 
 I shall be met at Bury, as I can well find my 
 way to the rectory, and I beg that you will not 
 inconvenience yourselves by such attention. Ac- 
 cordingly as I find Miss Isola able to bear the 
 journey, I intend to take the care of her by 
 the same stage or by chaises perhaps, dividing the 
 journey ; but exactly as you shall judge fit. 
 
 It is our misfortune that long journeys do not 
 agree with my sister, who would else have taken 
 this care upon herself, perhaps more properly. 
 It is quite out of the question to rob you of the 
 service of any of your domestics. I cannot think 
 
 216 
 
of it. But if in your opinion a female attendant 
 would be requisite on the journey, or if you or 
 Mr. Williams would feel more comfortable by her 
 being in the charge of two, I will most gladly 
 engage one of her nurses or any young person 
 near you that you can recommend ; for my ob- 
 ject is to remove her in the way that shall be 
 most satisfactory to yourselves. 
 
 On the subject of the young people that you 
 are interesting yourselves about, I will have the 
 pleasure to talk with you when I shall see you. 
 I live almost out of the world and out of the 
 sphere of being useful ; but no pains of mine 
 shall be spared, if but a prospect opens of doing 
 a service. Could I do all I could wish, and I in- 
 deed have grown helpless to myself and others, 
 it would not satisfy the arrears of obligation 
 I owe to Mr. Williams and yourself for all your 
 kindness. 
 
 I beg you will turn in your mind and consider 
 in what most comfortable way Miss Isola can 
 leave your house, and I will implicitly follow 
 your suggestions. What you have done for her 
 can never be effaced from our memories, and 
 I would have you part with her in the way that 
 would best satisfy yourselves. 
 
 I am afraid of impertinently extending my 
 letter, else I feel I have not half said what I 
 would say. So, dear madam, till I have the 
 pleasure of seeing you both, of whose kindness 
 I have heard so much before, I respectfully take 
 
 217 
 
my leave with our kindest love to your poor pa- 
 tient and most sincere regards for the health and 
 happiness of Mr. Williams and yourself. May 
 God bless you. Ch. Lamb 
 
 DCXXX. — TO MRS. WILLIAMS 
 
 April 2, 1830. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I have great pleasure in let- 
 ting you know that Miss Isola has suffered very 
 little from fatigue on her long journey. I am 
 ashamed to say that I came home rather the 
 more tired of the two. But I am a very unprac- 
 tised traveller. She has had two tolerable nights' 
 sleeps since, and is decidedly not worse than when 
 we left you. I remembered the magnesia accord- 
 ing to your directions, and promise that she shall 
 be kept very quiet, never forgetting that she is 
 still an invalid. 
 
 We found my sister very well in health, only 
 a little impatient to see her; and, after a few 
 hysterical tears for gladness, all was comfortable 
 again. We arrived here from Epping between 
 five and six. The incidents of our journey were 
 trifling, but you bade me tell them. We had 
 then in the coach a rather talkative gentleman, 
 but very civil, all the way, and took up a servant 
 maid at Stamford, going to a sick mistress. To 
 the latter, a participation in the hospitalities of 
 your nice rusks and sandwiches proved agree- 
 able, as it did to my companion, who took merely 
 
 218 
 
a sip of the weakest wine and water with them. 
 The former engaged me in a discourse for full 
 twenty miles on the probable advantages of steam 
 carriages, which being merely problematical, I 
 bore my part in with some credit, in spite of 
 my totally un-engineer-like faculties. But when 
 somewhere about Stanstead he put an unfortun- 
 ate question to me as to the "probability of its 
 turning out a good turnip season ; " and when I, 
 who am still less of an agriculturist than a steam- 
 philosopher, not knowing a turnip from a potato 
 ground, innocently made answer that I believed 
 it depended very much upon boiled legs of mut- 
 ton, my unlucky reply set Miss Isola a-laughing 
 to a degree that disturbed her tranquillity for the 
 only moment in our journey. I am afraid my 
 credit sank very low with my other fellow-trav- 
 eller, who had thought he had met with a well- 
 informed passenger, which is an accident so desir- 
 able in a stage-coach. We were rather less com- 
 municative, but still friendly, the rest of the way. 
 How I employed myself between Epping and 
 Enfield the poor verses * in the front of my paper 
 
 1 L east Daughter, but not least beloved, of Grace ! 
 
 frown not on a stranger, who from place 
 
 U nknown and distant these few lines hath penn'd. 
 
 1 but report what thy Instructress Friend 
 S o oft hath told us of thy gentle heart. 
 A pupil most affectionate thou art, 
 
 C areful to learn what elder years impart. 
 L ouisa — Clare — by which name shall I call thee ? 
 A prettier pair of names sure ne' er was found, 
 R esembling thy own sweetness in sweet sound. 
 E ver calm peace and innocence befal thee ! 
 
 219 
 
may inform you, which you may please to christen 
 an acrostic in a Cross Road, and which I wish 
 were worthier of the lady they refer to. But 
 I trust you will plead my pardon to her on a sub- 
 ject so delicate as a lady's good name. Your 
 candour must acknowledge that they are written 
 strait. 
 
 And now dear Madam, I have left myself 
 hardly space to express my sense of the friendly 
 reception I found at Fornham. Mr. Williams 
 will tell you that we had the pleasure of a slight 
 meeting with him on the road, where I could 
 almost have told him, but that it seemed ungra- 
 cious, that such had been your hospitality that 
 I scarcely missed the good master of the family 
 at Fornham, though heartily I should have re- 
 joiced to have made a little longer acquaintance 
 with him. I will say nothing of our deeper 
 obligations to both of you, because I think we 
 agreed at Fornham, that gratitude may be over- 
 exacted on the part of the obliging, and over- 
 expressed on the part of the obliged, person. 
 My sister and Miss Isola join in respects to Mr. 
 Williams and yourself, and I beg to be remem- 
 bered kindly to the Miss Hammonds and the 
 two gentlemen whom I had the good fortune to 
 meet at your house. I have not forgotten the 
 election in which you are interesting yourself, 
 and the little that I can I will do immediately. 
 Miss Isola will have the pleasure of writing to 
 you next week, and we shall hope, at your leisure, 
 
 220 
 
to hear of your own health, &c. I am, dear 
 Madam, with great respect, your obliged, 
 
 Charles Lamb 
 
 [ Added in Miss Isolds handi\ I must just add 
 a line to beg you will let us hear from you, my 
 dear Mrs. Williams. I have just received the 
 forwarded letter. Fornham we have talked about 
 constantly, and I felt quite strange at this home 
 the first day. I will attend to all you said, my 
 dear Madam. 
 
 DCXXXL — TO MRS. WILLIAMS 
 
 April 9, 1830. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I do assure you that your 
 verses gratified me very much, and my sister is 
 quite proud of them. For the first time in my 
 life I congratulated myself upon the shortness 
 and meanness of my name. Had it been Schwartz- 
 enberg or Esterhazy, it would have put you to 
 some puzzle. I am afraid I shall sicken you 
 of acrostics ; but this last was written to order. 1 
 
 1 G o little Poem, and present 
 R espectful terms of compliment ; 
 A gentle lady bids thee speak ! 
 C ourteous is she, tho' thou be weak — 
 E voke from Heaven as thick as manna 
 
 J oy after joy on Grace Joanna: 
 O n Fornham' s Glebe and Pasture land 
 A blessing pray. Long, long may stand, 
 N ot touched by Time, the Rectory blithe; 
 N o grudging churl dispute his Tithe; 
 A t Easter be the offerings due 
 
 *22I 
 
I beg you to have inserted in your county paper 
 something like this advertisement : " To the 
 nobility, gentry, and others, about Bury : — C. 
 Lamb respectfully informs his friends and the 
 public in general, that he is leaving off business 
 in the acrostic line, as he is going into an en- 
 tirely new line. Rebuses and charades done as 
 usual, and upon the old terms. Also, epitaphs 
 to suit the memory of any person deceased." 
 I thought I had adroitly escaped the rather un- 
 pliable name of "Williams," curtailing your 
 poor daughters to their proper surnames ; but it 
 seems you would not let me off so easily. If these 
 trifles amuse you, I am paid. Tho' really 'tis 
 an operation too much like — "A, apple-pye; 
 B, bit it." To make amends, I request leave 
 to lend you the Excursion, and to recommend, 
 in particular, the Churchyard Stories, in the sev- 
 enth book, I think. They will strengthen the 
 tone of your mind after its weak diet on acros- 
 tics. 
 
 Miss Isola is writing, and will tell you that 
 we are going on very comfortably. Her sister 
 is just come. She blames my last verses, as being 
 more written on Mr. Williams than on yourself; 
 
 W ith cheerful spirit paid ; each pew 
 
 I n decent order filled 5 no noise 
 
 L oud intervene to drown the voice, 
 
 L earning, or wisdom of the Teacher ; 
 
 I mpressive be the Sacred Preacher, 
 A nd strict his notes on holy page ; 
 M ay young and old from age to age 
 
 S alute, and still point out, "The good man's Parsonage!" 
 
 222 
 
but how should I have parted whom a superior 
 Power has brought together? I beg you will 
 jointly accept of our best respects, and pardon 
 your obsequious if not troublesome correspond- 
 ent, 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. 
 
 DCXXXII. — TO JAMES GILLMAN 
 
 Early spring, 1830. 
 
 Dear Gillman, — Pray do you, or S. T. C, 
 immediately write to say you have received back 
 the golden works of the dear, fine, silly old 
 angel, which I part from, bleeding, and to say 
 how the winter has used you all. 
 
 It is our intention soon, weather permitting, 
 to come over for a day at Highgate; for beds 
 we will trust to the Gate-House, should you be 
 full: tell me if we may come casually, for in 
 this change of climate there is no naming a day 
 for walking. With best loves to Mrs. Gillman, 
 &c. 
 
 Yours, mopish, but in health, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 I shall be uneasy till I hear of Fuller's safe 
 arrival. 
 
 223 
 
DCXXXIII. — TO JAMES VALE ASBURY 
 
 April, 1830. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Some draughts and boluses have 
 been brought here, which we conjecture were 
 meant for the young lady whom you saw this 
 morning, though they are labelled for 
 
 Miss I so la Lamb. 
 
 No such person is known on the Chase Side, and 
 she is fearful of taking medicines which may 
 have been made up for another patient. She begs 
 me to say that she was born an Isola and chris- 
 tened Emma. Moreover, that she is Italian by 
 birth, and that her ancestors were from Isola 
 Bella (Fair Island) in the kingdom of Naples. 
 She has never changed her name, and rather 
 mournfully adds that she has no prospect at pre- 
 sent of doing so. She is literally /. Sola, or single, 
 at present. Therefore she begs that the obnox- 
 ious monosyllable may be omitted on future 
 phials — an innocent syllable enough, you'll 
 say, but she has no claim to it. It is the bitterest 
 pill of the seven you have sent her. When a 
 lady loses her good name, what is to become of 
 her ? Well she must swallow it as well as she 
 can, but begs the dose may not be repeated. 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 Charles Lamb (not Isola) 
 
 224 
 
DCXXXIV.— TO JAMES VALE ASBURY 
 
 [Undated.] 
 
 Dear Sir, — It is an observation of a wise man 
 that " moderation is best in all things." I can- 
 not agree with him "in liquor." There is a 
 smoothness and oiliness in wine that makes it go 
 down by a natural channel, which I am positive 
 was made for that descending. Else, why does 
 not wine choke us ? could Nature have made 
 that sloping lane, not to facilitate the down- 
 going ? She does nothing in vain. You know 
 that better than I. You know how often she 
 has helped you at a dead lift, and how much 
 better entitled she is to a fee than yourself 
 sometimes, when you carry off the credit. Still 
 there is something due to manners and customs, 
 and I should apologise to you and Mrs. Asbury 
 for being absolutely carried home upon a man's 
 shoulders thro' Silver Street, up Parson's Lane, 
 by the Chapels (which might have taught me 
 better), and then to be deposited like a dead log 
 at Gaffer Westwood's, who it seems does not 
 " insure " against intoxication. Not that the 
 mode of conveyance is objectionable. On the 
 contrary, it is more easy than a one-horse chaise. 
 Ariel in the Tempest says, — 
 
 On a bat's back do I fly, after sunset merrily. 
 
 Now I take it that Ariel must sometimes have 
 stayed out late of nights. Indeed, he pretends 
 
 225 
 
that " where the bee sucks, there sucks he," as 
 much as to say that his suction is as innocent as 
 that little innocent (but damnably stinging when 
 he is provok'd) winged creature. But I take it 
 that Ariel was fond of metheglin, of which the 
 bees are notorious brewers. 
 
 But then you will say : What a shocking 
 sight to see a middle-aged gentleman-and-a-half 
 riding upon a gentleman's back up Parson's Lane 
 at midnight. Exactly the time for that sort of 
 conveyance, when nobody can see him, nobody 
 but heaven and his own conscience ; now heaven 
 makes fools, and don't expect much from her 
 own creation ; and as for conscience, she and I 
 have long since come to a compromise. I have 
 given up false modesty, and she allows me to 
 abate a little of the true. I like to be liked, but 
 I don't care about being respected. I don't re- 
 spect myself. But, as I was saying, I thought he 
 would have let me down just as we got to Lieu- 
 tenant Barker's coal-shed (or emporium), but by 
 a cunning jerk I eased myself, and righted my 
 posture. I protest, I thought myself in a palan- 
 quin, and never felt myself so grandly carried. 
 It was a slave under me. There was I, all but 
 my reason. And what is reason? and what is 
 the loss of it? and how often in a day do we 
 do without it, just as well ? Reason is only count- 
 ing, two and two makes four. And if on my 
 passage home, I thought it made five, what 
 matter ? Two and two will just make four, as 
 
 226 
 
it always did, before I took the finishing glass 
 that did my business. My sister has begged me 
 to write an apology to Mrs. A. and you for dis- 
 gracing your party ; now it does seem to me 
 that I rather honoured your party, for every one 
 that was not drunk (and one or two of the ladies, 
 I am sure, were not) must have been set off greatly 
 in the contrast to me. I was the scapegoat. The 
 soberer they seemed. By the way is magnesia 
 good on these occasions ? iiipol: med : sum: ante 
 noct : in rub : can :. I am no licentiate, but know 
 enough of simples to beg you to send me a 
 draught after this model. But still you will say 
 (or the men and maids at your house will say) 
 that it is not a seemly sight for an old gentleman 
 to go home pick-a-back. Well, may be it is not. 
 But I never studied grace. I take it to be a mere 
 superficial accomplishment. I regard more the 
 internal acquisitions. The great object after sup- 
 per is to get home, and whether that is obtained 
 in a horizontal posture or perpendicular (as fool- 
 ish men and apes affect for dignity) I think is 
 little to the purpose. The end is always greater 
 than the means. Here I am, able to compose a 
 sensible rational apology, and what signifies how 
 I got here? I have just sense enough to remem- 
 ber I was very happy last night, and to thank 
 our kind host and hostess, and that 's sense enough, 
 I hope. Charles Lamb 
 
 N. B. What is good for a desperate head- 
 227 
 
ache ? Why, patience, and a determination not 
 to mind being miserable all day long. And that 
 I have made my mind up to. So, here goes. 
 It is better than not being alive at all, which 
 I might have been, had your man toppled me 
 down at Lieut. Barker's coal-shed. My sister 
 sends her sober compliments to Mrs. A. She 
 is not much the worse. 
 
 Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 DCXXXV. — TO MRS. WILLIAMS 
 
 April 21, 1830. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I have ventured upon some 
 lines, which combine my old acrostic talent 
 (which you first found out) with my new pro- 
 fession of epitaph-monger. 1 As you did not 
 
 * G race Joanna here doth lie : 
 R eader, wonder not that I 
 A nte-date her hour of rest. 
 C an I thwart her wish exprest, 
 E v'n unseemly though the laugh 
 
 J esting with an Epitaph ? 
 
 n her bones the turf lie lightly, 
 A nd her rise again be brightly! 
 
 N o dark stain be found upon her — 
 N o, there will not, on mine honour — 
 A nswer that at least I can. 
 
 Would that I, thrice happy man, 
 
 1 n as spotless garb might rise, 
 Light as she will climb the skies, 
 L eaving the dull earth behind, 
 
 I n a car more swift than wind. 
 A 11 her errors, all her failings, 
 (M any they were not) and ailings, 
 S leep secure from Envy's railings. 
 
 228 
 
please to say when you would die, I have left a 
 blank space for the date. May kind heaven be 
 a long time in filling it up. At least you cannot 
 say that these lines are not about you, though 
 not much to the purpose. We were very sorry 
 to hear that you have not been very well, and 
 hope that a little excursion may revive you. Miss 
 Isola is thankful for her added day ; but I verily 
 think she longs to see her young friends once 
 more, and will regret less than ever the end of 
 her holydays. She cannot be going on more 
 quietly than she is doing here, and you will per- 
 ceive amendment. 
 
 I hope all her little commissions will all be 
 brought home to your satisfaction. When she 
 returns, we purpose seeing her to Epping on her 
 journey. We have had our proportion of fine 
 weather and some pleasant walks, and she is 
 stronger, her appetite good, but less wolfish than 
 at first, which we hold a good sign. I hope Mr. 
 Wing will approve of its abatement. She de- 
 sires her very kindest respects to Mr. Williams 
 and yourself, and wishes to rejoin you. My 
 sister and myself join in respect, and pray tell 
 Mr. Donne, with our compliments, that we 
 shall be disappointed, if we do not see him. 
 
 This letter being very neatly written, I am 
 very unwilling that Emma should club any of 
 her disproportionate scrawl to deface it. 
 Your obliged servant, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 229 
 
DCXXXVI. — TO BASIL MONTAGUE 
 
 Dear B. M., — You are a kind soul of your- 
 self, and need no spurring, but if you can help a 
 worthy man you will have two worthy men obliged 
 to you. I am writing from Hone's possible Cof- 
 fee-House, which must answer, if he can find 
 means to open it, which unfortunately flag. We 
 purpose a little subscription, but I know how 
 tender a subject the pocket is. Your advice may 
 be important to him. 
 
 Yours most truly, C. Lamb 
 
 This is a letter of business, so I won't send 
 unseasonable love to Mrs. Montague and the 
 both good Proctors. 
 
 DCXXXVII. — TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 
 
 May 10, 1830. 
 
 Dear Southey, — My friend Hone, whom you 
 would like for a friend, I found deeply impressed 
 with your generous notice of him in your beauti- 
 ful Life of Bunyan, which I am just now full of. 
 He has written to you for leave to publish a 
 certain good-natured letter. I write not this to 
 enforce his request, for we are fully aware that the 
 refusal of such publication would be quite con- 
 sistent with all that is good in your character. 
 Neither he nor I expect it from you, nor exact 
 it ; but if you would consent to it, you would 
 
 230 
 
have me obliged by it, as well as him. He is just 
 now in a critical situation : kind friends have 
 opened a coffee-house for him in the city, but 
 their means have not extended to the purchase 
 of coffee-pots, credit for reviews, newspapers, and 
 other paraphernalia. So I am sitting in the skele- 
 ton of a possible divan. What right I have to 
 interfere, you best know. Look on me as a dog 
 who went once temporarily insane, and bit you, 
 and now begs for a crust. Will you set your wits 
 to a dog ? Our object is to open a subscription, 
 which my friends of the Times are most willing 
 to forward for him, but think that a leave from 
 you to publish would aid it. 
 
 But not an atom of respect or kindness will or 
 shall it abate in either of us if you decline it. 
 Have this strongly in your mind. 
 
 Those Every-Day and Table Books will be a 
 treasure a hundred years hence ; but they have 
 failed to make Hone's fortune. 
 
 Here his wife and all his children are about 
 me, gaping for coffee customers ; but how should 
 they come in, seeing no pot boiling ! 
 
 Enough of Hone. I saw Coleridge a day or 
 two since. He has had some severe attack, not 
 paralytic ; but, if I had not heard of it, I should 
 not have found it out. He looks, and especially 
 speaks, strong. How are all the Wordsworths 
 and all the Southeys ? whom I am obliged to you 
 if you have not brought up haters of the name of 
 
 C. Lamb 
 231 
 
P. S. I have gone lately into the acrostic 
 line. I find genius (such as I had) declines with 
 me, but I get clever. Do you know anybody 
 that wants charades, or such things, for al- 
 bums ? I do 'em at so much a sheet. Perhaps 
 an epigram (not a very happy-gram) I did for 
 a school-boy yesterday may amuse. I pray Jove 
 he may not get a flogging for any false quan- 
 tity ; but 't is, with one exception, the only 
 Latin verses I have made for forty years, and I 
 did it " to order." 
 
 SUUM CUIQUE 
 
 Adsciscit sibi divitias et opes alienas 
 
 Fur, rapiens, spolians, quod mihi, quodque tibi, 
 
 Proprium erat, temnens haec verba, meumque, suumque ; 
 Omne suum est : tandem cuique suum tribuit. 
 
 Dat laqueo collum; vestes, vah ! carnifici dat; 
 Sese Diabolo: sic bene: cuique suum. 
 
 I write from Hone's, therefore Mary cannot 
 send her love to Mrs. Southey, but I do. 
 
 Yours ever, C. L. 
 
 DCXXXVIII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 May 12, 1830. 
 
 Dear M., — I dined with your and my Rogers 
 at Mr. Cary's yesterday. Cary consulted me on 
 the proper bookseller to offer a lady's MS. novel 
 to. I said I would write to you. But I wish you 
 would call on the translator of Dante at the 
 British Museum, and talk with him. He is 
 
 232 
 
the pleasantest of clergymen. I told him of all 
 Rogers's handsome behaviour to you, and you 
 are already no stranger. Go. I made Rogers 
 laugh about your nightingale sonnet, not having 
 heard one. 'T is a good sonnet notwithstanding. 
 You shall have the books shortly. C. L. 
 
 DCXXXIX. — TO VINCENT NOVELLO 
 
 May 14, 1830. 
 
 Dear Novello, — Mary hopes you have not 
 forgot you are to spend a day with us on Wednes- 
 day. That it may be a long one, cannot you 
 secure places now for Mrs. Novello, yourself, and 
 the Clarkes ? We have just table room for four. 
 Five make my good landlady fidgetty ; six, to 
 begin to fret ; seven, to approximate to fever 
 point. But seriously we shall prefer four to two 
 or three ; we shall have from half-past ten to 
 six, when the coach goes off, to scent the coun- 
 try. And pray write now, to say you do so come, 
 for dear Mrs. Westwood else will be on the ten- 
 ters of incertitude. C. Lamb 
 
 DCXL. — TO VINCENT NOVELLO 
 
 May 20, 1830. 
 
 Dear N., — Pray write immediately to say 
 " The book has come safe." I am anxious, not 
 so much for the autographs, as for that bit of 
 the hair-brush. I enclose a cinder, which be- 
 
 2 33 
 
longed to Shield, when he was poor, and lit his 
 own fires. Any memorial of a great musical 
 genius, I know, is acceptable ; and Shield has 
 his merits, though Clementi, in my opinion, is 
 far above him in the sostenuto. Mr. Westwood 
 desires his compliments, and begs to present you 
 with a nail that came out of Jomelli's coffin, 
 who is buried at Naples. 
 
 DCXLI. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 May 21, 1830. 
 
 Dear Hone, — I thought you would be pleased 
 to see this letter. Pray if you have time to, call 
 on Novello, No. 66 Great Queen St. I am anx- 
 ious to learn whether he received his album 
 I sent on Friday by our nine o'clock morning 
 stage. If not, beg him inquire at the Old Bell, 
 Holborn. 
 
 Charles Lamb 
 
 Southey will see in the Times all we proposed 
 omitting is omitted. 
 
 DCXLIL — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 May 21, 1830. 
 
 Thanks for the paper. Much better an entire 
 letter (exceptis excipiendis) than extracts. Put me 
 down per Moxhay. C. L. 
 
 234 
 
DCXLIIL — TO SARAH HAZLITT 
 
 May 24, 1830. 
 
 Dear Sarah, — I found my way to Northaw 
 on Thursday and a very good woman behind a 
 counter, who says also that you are a very good 
 lady, but that the woman who was with you 
 was naught. These things may be so or not. 
 I did not accept her offered glass of wine (home- 
 made, I take it), but craved a cup of ale, with 
 which I seasoned a slice of cold Lamb from a 
 sandwich box, which I ate in her back parlour, 
 and proceeded for Berkhampstead, &c. ; lost 
 myself over a heath, and had a day's pleasure. 
 I wish you could walk as I do, and as you used 
 to do. I am sorry to find you are so poorly ; and, 
 now I have found my way, I wish you back at 
 Goody Tomlinson's. What a pretty village 't is ! 
 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 into a corner, and said, "Now, pray, 
 don't drink ; do check yourself after dinner, for 
 my sake, and when we get home to Enfield, you 
 shall drink as much as ever you please, and I 
 won't say a word about it." How I behaved, 
 you may guess, when I tell you that Mrs. Wil- 
 liams and I have written acrostics on each other, 
 and she hoped that she should have " no reason 
 
 2 35 
 
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 toler- 
 able health) to her long home, for she comes 
 not again for a twelvemonth. 
 
 I amused Mrs. Williams with an occurrence 
 on our road to Enfield. We travelled with one 
 of those troublesome fellow-passengers in a stage- 
 coach, that is called a well-informed man. For 
 twenty miles we discoursed about the properties 
 of steam, probabilities of carriages by ditto, till 
 all my science, and more than all, was exhausted, 
 and I was thinking of escaping my torment by 
 getting up on the outside, when, getting into 
 Bishops Stortford, my gentleman, spying some 
 farming land, put an unlucky question to me : 
 " What sort of a crop of turnips I thought we 
 should have this year?" Emma's eyes turned 
 to me, to know what in the world I could have 
 to say; and she burst into a violent fit of laughter, 
 maugre her pale, serious cheeks, when, with the 
 greatest gravity, I replied, that " it depended, I 
 believed, upon boiled legs of mutton." This 
 clinch'd our conversation ; and my gentleman, 
 with a face half wise, half in scorn, troubled us 
 with no more conversation, scientific or philo- 
 sophical, for the remainder of the journey. 
 
 Ayrton was here yesterday, and as learned to 
 the full as my fellow-traveller. What a pity 
 that he will spoil a wit and a devilish pleasant 
 fellow (as he is) by wisdom ! He talk'd on 
 
 236 
 
music ; and by having read Hawkins and Burney 
 recently I was enabled to talk of names, and 
 show more knowledge than he had suspected I 
 possessed ; and in the end he begg'd me to shape 
 my thoughts upon paper, which I did after he 
 was gone, and sent him. 
 
 Martin Burney is as odd as ever. We had a 
 dispute about the word " heir," which I con- 
 tended was pronounced like " air;" he said that 
 might be in common parlance ; or that we might 
 so use it, speaking of the Heir-at-Law, a comedy; 
 but that in the law courts it was necessary to 
 give it a full aspiration, and to say Hayer ; he 
 thought it might even vitiate a cause, if a counsel 
 pronounced it otherwise. In conclusion, he 
 " would consult Serjeant Wilde ; " who gave it 
 against him. Sometimes he falleth into the water, 
 sometimes into the fire. He came down here, 
 and insisted on reading Virgil's Eneid all through 
 with me (which he did), because a counsel mutr. 
 know Latin. Another time he read out all the 
 Gospel of St. John, because Biblical quotations 
 are very emphatic in a Court of Justice. A third 
 time, he would carve a fowl, which he did very 
 ill-favouredly, because " we did not know how 
 indispensable it was for a barrister to do all those 
 sort of things well. Those little things were of 
 more consequence than we supposed." So he 
 goes on, harassing about the way to prosperity, 
 and losing it. With a long head, but somewhat 
 a wrong one — harum-scarum. Why does not 
 
 237 
 
his guardian angel look to him ? He deserves 
 one : may be, he has tired him out. 
 
 I am tired with this long scrawl, but I thought 
 in your exile, you might like a letter. 
 
 Commend me to all the wonders in Derby- 
 shire, and tell the devil I humbly kiss — my hand 
 to him. Yours ever, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 Mary's love ? Yes. Mary Lamb quite well. 
 
 DCXLIV.— TO SARAH HAZLITT 
 
 June 3, 1830. 
 
 Dear Sarah, — I named your thought about 
 William to his father, who expressed such horror 
 and aversion to the idea of his singing in public 
 that I cannot meddle in it directly or indirectly. 
 Ayrton is a kind fellow, and if you chuse to con- 
 sult him by letter, or otherwise, he will give you 
 the best advice, I am sure, very readily. / have 
 no doubt that M. Burney's objection to interfering 
 was the same with mine. 
 
 With thanks for your pleasant long letter, 
 which is not that of an invalid, and sympathy 
 for your sad sufferings, I remain, in haste, 
 
 Yours truly 
 
 Mary's kindest love. 
 
 238 
 
DCXLV. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 June 17, 1830. 
 
 I hereby impower Matilda Hone to superin- 
 tend daily the putting into the twopenny post 
 the Times newspaper of the day before, directed 
 "Mr. Lamb, Enfield," which shall be held a 
 full and sufficient direction: the said insertion to 
 commence on Monday morning next. And I 
 do engage to pay to William Hone, Coffee and 
 Hotel Man, the quarterly sum of ^1, to be paid 
 at the ordinary Quarter days, or thereabout, for 
 the reversion of the said paper, commencing 
 with the 24th inst., or Feast of John the Bap- 
 tist; the intervening days to be held and con- 
 sidered as nothing. C. Lamb 
 
 Vivant Coffee, Coffee-potque ! 
 
 DCXLVL — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 June 28, 1830. 
 
 Dear B. B., — Could you dream of my pub- 
 lishing without sending a copy to you? You will 
 find something new to you in the volume, par- 
 ticularly the translations. Moxon will send to 
 you the moment it is out. He is the young poet 
 of Xmas, whom the author of the Pleasures of 
 Memory [Rogers] has set up in the bookvending 
 business with a volunteer'd loan of ^500 — such 
 munificence is rare to an almost stranger. But 
 
 239 
 
Rogers, I am told, has done many good-natured 
 things of this nature. 
 
 I need not say how glad to see A. K. and 
 Lucy we should have been, — and still shall be, 
 if it be practicable. Our direction is Mr. West- 
 wood's, Chase Side, Enfield, but alas ! I know 
 not theirs. We can give them a bed. Coaches 
 come daily from the Bell, Holborn. 
 
 You will see that I am worn to the poetical 
 dregs, condescending to acrostics, which are nine 
 fathom beneath album verses — but they were 
 written at the request of the lady where our 
 Emma is, to whom I paid a visit in April to 
 bring home Emma for a change of air after a 
 severe illness, in which she had been treated like 
 a daughter by the good parson and his whole 
 family. She has since return'd to her occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 I thought on you in Suffolk, but was forty 
 miles from Woodbridge. I heard of you the 
 other day from Mr. Pulham of the India House. 
 
 Long live King William the Fourth. 
 
 S. T. C. says, we have had wicked kings, fool- 
 ish kings, wise kings, good kings (but few), but 
 never till now have we had a blackguard king. 
 
 Charles Second was profligate, but a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 I have nineteen letters to dispatch this leisure 
 sabbath for Moxon to send about with copies; 
 so you will forgive me short measure, — and 
 believe me, Yours ever, C. L. 
 
 240 
 
Pray do let us see your Quakeresses if possible. 
 DCXLVIL — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 July i, 1830. 
 
 Pray let Matilda keep my newspapers till you 
 hear from me, as we are meditating a town resi- 
 dence. C. Lamb 
 
 Let her keep them as the apple of her eye. 
 
 DCXLVIIL — TO MRS. RICKMAN 
 
 1830. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Rickman, — I beg your acceptance 
 of a little volume, which may amuse either of 
 your young ladies. It pretends to no high flights, 
 and may lie about with albums, shells, and such 
 knicknacks. Will you re-give, or lend me, by 
 the bearer, the one volume of Juvenile Poetry ? 
 I have tidings of a second at Brighton. If the 
 two tally, we may some day play a hand at old 
 whist, who shall have both. 
 
 With best regards to you all, yours ever, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 Any little commissions in the book line from 
 Mr. Rickman, or any of your friends, will be 
 most punctually attended to by my friend the 
 publisher. 
 
 241 
 
DCXLIX. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 [p. m. August 30, 1830.] 
 
 Dear B. B., — My address is 34 Southampton 
 Buildings, Holborn. For God's sake do not let 
 me be pester' d with Annuals. They are all 
 rogues who edit them, and something else who 
 write in them. I am still alone, and very much 
 out of sorts, and cannot spur up my mind to 
 writing. The sight of one of those Tear Books 
 makes me sick. I get nothing by any of 'em, 
 not even a copy. 
 
 Thank you for your warm interest about my 
 little volume, for the critics on which I care not 
 the five-hundred-thousandth part of the tythe 
 of a half-farthing. I am too old a militant for 
 that. How noble, tho', in R. S. to come for- 
 ward for an old friend, who had treated him so 
 unworthily. Moxon has a shop without cus- 
 tomers, I a book without readers. But what 
 a clamour against a poor collection of album 
 verses, as if we had put forth an epic. I cannot 
 scribble a long letter — I am, when not at foot, 
 very desolate, and take no interest in anything, 
 scarce hate anything, but Annuals. I am in an 
 interregnum of thought and feeling. 
 
 What a beautiful autumn morning this is, if it 
 was but with me as in times past when the candle 
 of the Lord shined round me. 
 
 I cannot even muster enthusiasm to admire the 
 French heroism. 
 
 242 
 
In better times I hope we may some day meet, 
 and discuss an old poem or two. But if you 'd 
 have me not sick, no more of Annuals. 
 
 C. L. Ex-Elia 
 
 Love to Lucy and A. K. always. 
 
 DCL. — TO SAMUEL ROGERS 
 
 October 5, 1830. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I know not what hath bewitch' d 
 me that I have delayed acknowledging your beau- 
 tiful present. But I have been very unwell and 
 nervous of late. The poem was not new to me, 
 tho' I have renewed acquaintance with it. Its 
 metre is none of the least of its excellencies. 'T is 
 so far from the stiffness of blank verse — it gal- 
 lops like a traveller, as it should do — no crude 
 Miltonisms in it. Dare I pick out what most 
 pleases me ? It is the middle paragraph in page 
 thirty-four. It is most tasty. Though I look on 
 every impression as a proof of your kindness, I am 
 jealous of the ornaments, and should have prized 
 the verses naked on whity-brown paper. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 DCLI. — TO VINCENT NOVELLO 
 
 November 8, 1830. 
 
 Tears are for lighter griefs. Man weeps the doom 
 That seals a single victim to the tomb. 
 
 243 
 
But when Death riots, when with whelming sway 
 Destruction sweeps a family away ; 
 When Infancy and Youth, a huddled mass, 
 All in an instant to oblivion pass, 
 And Parents' hopes are crush'd ; what lamentation 
 Can reach the depth of such a desolation ? 
 Look upward, Feeble Ones ! look up, and trust 
 That He, who lays this mortal frame in dust, 
 Still hath the immortal Spirit in His keeping. 
 In Jesus' sight they are not dead, but sleeping. 
 
 DearN., — Will these lines do? I despair of 
 better. Poor Mary is in a deplorable state here 
 at Enfield. Love to all, C. Lamb 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [The four sons and two daughters of John and Ann Rigg, 
 of York, had been drowned in the Ouse. A number of poets 
 were asked for verses, the best to be inscribed on a monument 
 in York Minster. Those of James Montgomery were chosen. 
 — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 DCLII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 November 12, 1830. 
 
 Dear Moxon, — I have brought my sister to 
 Enfield, being sure that she had no hope of re- 
 covery in London. Her state of mind is deplor- 
 able beyond any example. I almost fear whether 
 she has strength at her time of life ever to get out 
 of it. Here she must be nursed, and neither see 
 nor hear of anything in the world out of her sick 
 chamber. The mere hearing that Southey had 
 called at our lodgings totally upset her. Pray see 
 
 244 
 
him, or hear of him at Mr. Rickman's, and ex- 
 cuse my not writing to him. I dare not write or 
 receive a letter in her presence ; every little task 
 so agitates her. Westwood will receive any letter 
 for me, and give it me privately. Pray assure 
 Southey of my kindliest feelings towards him; 
 and, if you do not see him, send this to him. 
 
 Kindest remembrances to your sister, and be- 
 lieve me ever yours, C. Lamb 
 
 Remember me kindly to the Allsops. 
 
 DCLIIL— TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 December, 1830. 
 
 Dear M., — Something like this was what I 
 meant. But on reading it over, I see no great fun 
 or use in it. It will only stuff up and encroach 
 upon the sheet you propose. Do as, and what, 
 you please. Send proof, or not, as you like. If 
 you send, send me a copy or two of the Album 
 Verses, and the Juvenile Poetry, if bound. 
 
 I am happy to say Mary is mending, but not 
 enough to give me hopes of being able to leave 
 her. I sadly regret that I shall possibly not see 
 Southey or Wordsworth, but I dare not invite 
 either of them here, for fear of exciting my sis- 
 ter, whose only chance is quiet. You don't know 
 in what a sad state we have been. 
 
 I think the Devil may come out without pre- 
 faces, but use your discretion. 
 
 245 
 
Make my kindest remembrances to Southey, 
 with my heart's thanks for his kind intent. I 
 am a little easier about my will, and as Ryle is 
 executor, and will do all a friend can do at the 
 Office, and what little I leave will buy an annu- 
 ity to piece out tolerably, I am much easier. 
 Yours ever, C. L. 
 
 DCLIV. — TO GEORGE DYER 
 
 December 20, 1830. 
 
 Dear Dyer, — I would have written before to 
 thank you for your kind letter, written with your 
 own hand. It glads us to see your writing. It 
 will give you pleasure to hear that, after so much 
 illness, we are in tolerable health and spirits once 
 more. Miss Isola intended to call upon you after 
 her night's lodging at Miss Buffam's, but found 
 she was too late for the stage. If she comes to 
 town before she goes home, she will not miss 
 paying her respects to Mrs. Dyer and you, to 
 whom she desires best love. 
 
 Poor Enfield, that has been so peaceable 
 hitherto, has caught the inflammatory fever ; the 
 tokens are upon her ! and a great fire was blazing 
 last night in the barns and haystacks of a farmer, 
 about half a mile from us. Where will these 
 things end ? There is no doubt of its being the 
 work of some ill-disposed rustic ; but how is he 
 to be discovered ? They go to work in the dark 
 with strange chemical preparations unknown to 
 
 246 
 
our forefathers. There is not even a dark lantern 
 to have a chance of detecting these Guy Fauxes. 
 We are past the iron age, and are got into the 
 fiery age, undream' d of by Ovid. You are lucky 
 in Clifford's Inn where, I think, you have few 
 ricks or stacks worth the burning. Pray keep as 
 little corn by you as you can, for fear of the 
 worst. 
 
 It was never good times in England since the 
 poor began to speculate upon their condition. 
 Formerly, they jogged on with as little reflection 
 as horses : the whistling ploughman went cheek 
 by jowl with his brother that neighed. Now the 
 biped carries a box of phosphorus in his leather 
 breeches ; and in the dead of night the half- 
 illuminated beast steals his magic potion into 
 a cleft in a barn, and half a country is grinning 
 with new fires. Farmer Graystock said some- 
 thing to the touchy rustic that he did not relish, 
 and he writes his distaste in flames. What a 
 power to intoxicate his crude brains, just mud- 
 dlingly awake, to perceive that something is 
 wrong in the social system ! — what a hellish 
 faculty above gunpowder ! 
 
 Now the rich and poor are fairly pitted, we 
 shall see who can hang or burn fastest. It is not 
 always revenge that stimulates these kindlings. 
 There is a love of exerting mischief. Think of 
 a disrespected clod that was trod into earth, that 
 was nothing, on a sudden by damned arts refined 
 into an exterminating angel, devouring the fruits 
 
 247 
 
of the earth and their growers in a mass of fire ! 
 What a new existence ! — what a temptation 
 above Lucifer's ! Would clod be anything but 
 a clod, if he could resist it? Why, here was 
 a spectacle last night for a whole country ! — a 
 bonfire visible to London, alarming her guilty 
 towers, and shaking the Monument with an ague 
 fit, — all done by a little vial of phosphor in a 
 clown's fob ! How he must grin, and shake his 
 empty noddle in clouds, the Vulcanian epicure ! 
 Can we ring the bells backward ? Can we un- 
 learn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then 
 burn the world ? There is a march of science ; 
 but who shall beat the drums for its retreat? 
 Who shall persuade the boor that phosphor will 
 not ignite ? 
 
 Seven goodly stacks of hay, with corn-barns 
 proportionable, lie smoking ashes and chaff", which 
 man and beast would sputter out and reject like 
 those apples of asphaltes and bitumen. The food 
 for the inhabitants of earth will quickly disap- 
 pear. Hot rolls may say : " Fuimus panes, fuit 
 quartern-loaf, et ingens gloria apple-pasty- 
 orum." That the good old munching system 
 may last thy time and mine, good un-incendiary 
 George, is the devout prayer of thine, to the last 
 crust, Ch. Lamb 
 
 note 
 
 [Incendiarism, the result of agricultural distress and in 
 opposition to the competition of the new machinery, was rife 
 in the country at this time.] 
 
 248 
 
DCLV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 Christmas, 1830. 
 
 Dear M., — A thousand thanks for your punc- 
 tualities. What a cheap book is the last Hogarth 
 you sent me ! I am pleased now that Hunt did- 
 dled me out of the old one. Speaking of this, 
 only think of the new farmer with his thirty 
 acres. There is a portion of land in Lambeth 
 parish called Knaves Acre. I wonder he over- 
 look'd it. Don't show this to the firm of Dilk & 
 Co. I next want one copy of Leicester School, 
 and wish you to pay Leishman, Taylor, 2 Bland- 
 ford Place, Pall Mall, opposite the British Insti- 
 tution, ^6.10. for coat, waistcoat, &c. And I 
 vehemently thirst for the 4th No. of Nichols's 
 Hogarth, to bind 'em up (the two books) as 
 Hogarth, and Supplement. But as you know the 
 price, don't stay for its appearance ; but come as 
 soon as ever you can with your bill of all de- 
 mands in full, and, as I have none but £$ notes, 
 bring with you sufficient change. 
 
 Weather is beautiful. I grieve sadly for Miss 
 Wordsworth. We are all well again. Emma is 
 with us, and we all shall be glad of a sight of 
 you. Come on Sunday, if you can ; better, if you 
 come before. Perhaps Rogers would smile at 
 this. A pert half chemist half apothecary, in our 
 town, who smatters of literature and is immeas- 
 urable unletter'd, said to me, "Pray, Sir, may 
 not Hood (he of the acres) be reckon'd the 
 
 249 
 
prince of wits in the present day?" to which I 
 assenting, he adds, " I had always thought that 
 Rogers had been reckon'd the prince of wits, but 
 I suppose that now Mr. Hood has the better title 
 to that appellation." To which I replied that 
 Mr. R. had wit with much better qualities, but 
 did not aspire to the principality. He had taken 
 all the puns manufactured in "John Bull for our 
 friend, in sad and stupid earnest. One more 
 album verses, please. Adieu. C. L. 
 
 DCLVI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 February 3, 1831. 
 
 Dear Moxon, — The snows are ancle-deep 
 slush and mire, that 't is hard to get to the post- 
 office, and cruel to send the maid out. 'T is a 
 slough of despair, or I should sooner have thank'd 
 you for your offer of the Life, which we shall 
 very much like to have, and will return duly. 
 I do not know when I shall be in town, but in 
 a week or two at farthest, when I will come as 
 far as you if I can. We are moped to death with 
 confinement within doors. I send you a curi- 
 osity 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 sub- 
 sequent edition, 1801. But G. has been worry t- 
 ing about them ever since ; if I have heard him 
 
 250 
 
once, I have heard him a hundred times, express 
 a remorse proportion' d to a consciousness of 
 having been guilty of an atrocious libel. As the 
 devil would have it, a fool they call Barker, in 
 his Parriana has quoted the identical two lines 
 as they stood in some obscure edition anterior 
 to 1 80 1, and the withers of poor G. are again 
 wrung. His letter is a gem ; with his poor 
 blind eyes it has been laboured out at six sit- 
 tings. The history of the couplet is in page 
 three of this irregular production, in which every 
 variety of shape and size that letters can be 
 twisted into is to be found. Do shew his part 
 of it to Mr. R. some day. If he has bowels 
 they must melt at the contrition so queerly char- 
 acter'd of a contrite sinner. G. was born I verily 
 think without original sin, but chuses to have 
 a conscience, as every Christian gentleman should 
 have. His dear old face is insusceptible of the 
 twist they call a sneer, yet he is apprehensive of 
 being suspected of that ugly appearance. When 
 he makes a compliment, he thinks he has given 
 an affront. A name is personality. But shew (no 
 hurry) this unique recantation to Mr. R. 'Tis 
 like a dirty pocket handkerchief muck'd with 
 tears of some indigent Magdalen. There is the 
 impress of sincerity in every pot-hook and hanger. 
 And then the gilt frame to such a pauper picture ! 
 It should go into the Museum. 
 
 I am heartily sorry my Devil does not answer. 
 We must try it a little longer, and after all I 
 
 251 
 
think I must insist on taking a portion of the 
 loss upon myself. It is too much you should 
 lose by two adventures. You do not say how 
 your general business goes on, and I should very 
 much like to talk over it with you here. Come 
 when the weather will possibly let you. I want 
 to see the Wordsworths, but I do not much like 
 to be all night away. It is dull enough to be 
 here together, but it is duller to leave Mary ; in 
 short it is painful, and in a flying visit I should 
 hardly catch them. I have no beds for them, 
 if they came down, and but a sort of a house to 
 receive them in, yet I shall regret their depart- 
 ure unseen. I feel cramped and straiten'd every 
 way. Where are they ? 
 
 We have heard from Emma but once, and that 
 a month ago, and are very anxious for another 
 letter. 
 
 You say we have forgot your powers of being 
 serviceable to us. That we never shall. I do not 
 know what I should do without you when I want 
 a little commission. Now then. There are left 
 at Miss Buffam's, the Tales of the Castle, and 
 certain volumes Retrospective Review. The first 
 should be convey'd to Novello's, and the Reviews 
 should be taken to Talfourd's office, ground floor, 
 East side, Elm Court, Middle Temple, to whom 
 I should have written, but my spirits are wretched. 
 It is quite an effort to write this. So, with the 
 Life, I have cut you out three pieces of service. 
 What can I do for you here ? But hope to see 
 
 252 
 
you very soon, and think of you with most kind- 
 ness. I fear to-morrow, between rains and snows, 
 it would be impossible to expect you, but do not 
 let a practicable Sunday pass. We are always at 
 home. 
 
 Mary joins in remembrances to your sister, 
 whom we hope to see in any fine-ish weather, 
 when she '11 venture. 
 
 Remember us to Allsop, and all the dead peo- 
 ple — to whom, and to London, we seem dead. 
 
 DCLVII. — TO GEORGE DYER 
 
 February 22, 183 1. 
 
 Dear Dyer, — Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Rogers's 
 friends, are perfectly assured that you never in- 
 tended any harm by an innocent couplet, and that 
 in the revivification of it by blundering Barker 
 you had no hand whatever. To imagine that, at 
 this time of day, Rogers broods over a fantastic 
 expression of more than thirty years' standing, 
 would be to suppose him indulging his Pleasures 
 of Memory with a vengeance. You never penned 
 a line which for its own sake you need (dying) 
 wish to blot. You mistake your heart if you think 
 you can write a lampoon. Your whips are rods 
 of roses. Your spleen has ever had for its objects 
 vices, not the vicious — abstract offences, not the 
 concrete sinner. But you are sensitive, and wince 
 as much at the consciousness of having commit- 
 ted a compliment, as another man would at the 
 
 2 53 
 
perpetration of an affront. But do not lug me 
 into the same soreness of conscience with your- 
 self. I maintain, and will to the last hour, that 
 I never writ of you but con amore. That if any 
 allusion was made to your near-sightedness, it was 
 not for the purpose of mocking an infirmity, but 
 of connecting it with scholar-like habits : for 
 is it not erudite and scholarly to be somewhat 
 near of sight, before age naturally brings on the 
 malady ? You could not then plead the obrepens 
 senectus. 
 
 Did I not moreover make it an apology for 
 a certain absence, which some of your friends may 
 have experienced, when you have not on a sud- 
 den made recognition of them in a casual street- 
 meeting, and did I not strengthen your excuse for 
 this slowness of recognition, by further account- 
 ing morally for the present engagement of your 
 mind in worthy objects ? Did I not, in your per- 
 son, make the handsomest apology for absent-of- 
 mind people that was ever made ? If these things 
 be not so, I never knew what I wrote or meant 
 by my writing, and have been penning libels all 
 my life without being aware of it. Does it fol- 
 low that I should have exprest myself exactly 
 in the same way of those dear old eyes of yours 
 now — now that Father Time has conspired with 
 a hard task-master to put a last extinguisher upon 
 them ? I should as soon have insulted the an- 
 swerer of Salmasius [Milton], when he awoke 
 up from his ended task, and saw no more with 
 
 2 54 
 
mortal vision. But you are many films removed 
 yet from Milton's calamity. You write perfectly 
 intelligibly. Marry, the letters are not all of the 
 same size or tallness ; but that only shows your 
 proficiency in the hands — text, german-hand, 
 court-hand, sometimes law-hand, and afford vari- 
 ety. You pen better than you did a twelvemonth 
 ago ; and if you continue to improve, you bid 
 fair to win the golden pen which is the prize at 
 your young gentlemen's academy. But you must 
 beware of Valpy, and his printing-house, that 
 hazy cave of Trophonius, out of which it was a 
 mercy that you escaped with a glimmer. Beware 
 of MSS. and variae lectiones. Settle the text for 
 once in your mind, and stick to it. You have some 
 years' good sight in you yet, if you do not tamper 
 with it. It is not for you (for us I should say) 
 to go poring into Greek contractions, and star- 
 gazing upon slim Hebrew points. We have yet 
 the sight 
 
 Of sun, and moon, and star, throughout the year, 
 And man and woman. 
 
 You have vision enough to discern Mrs. Dyer 
 from the other comely gentlewoman who lives up 
 at staircase No. 5 ; or, if you should make a blun- 
 der in the twilight, Mrs. Dyer has too much 
 good sense to be jealous for a mere effect of im- 
 perfect optics. But don't try to write the Lord's 
 Prayer, Creed, and Ten Commandments, in the 
 compass of a halfpenny ; nor run after a midge 
 or a mote to catch it ; and leave off hunting for 
 
 255 
 
needles in bushels of hay, for all these things 
 strain the eyes. The snow is six feet deep in 
 some parts here. I must put on jack-boots to 
 get at the post-office with this. It is not good 
 for weak eyes to pore upon snow too much. It 
 lies in drifts. I wonder what its drift is ; only 
 that it makes good pancakes, remind Mrs. Dyer. 
 It turns a pretty green world into a white one. 
 It glares too much for an innocent colour, me- 
 thinks. 
 
 I wonder why you think I dislike gilt edges. 
 They set off a letter marvellously. Yours, for 
 instance, looks for all the world like a tablet of 
 curious hieroglyphics in a gold frame. But don't 
 go and lay this to your eyes. You always wrote 
 hieroglyphically, yet not to come up to the 
 mystical notations and conjuring characters of 
 Dr. Parr. You never wrote what I call a school- 
 master's hand, like Clarke ; nor a woman's hand, 
 like Southey ; nor a missal hand, like Porson ; 
 nor an all-of-the-wrong-side-sloping hand, like 
 Miss Hayes ; nor a dogmatic, Mede-and-Persian, 
 peremptory hand, like Rickman ; but you ever 
 wrote what I call a Grecian's hand ; what the 
 Grecians write (or used) at Christ's Hospital; 
 such as Whalley would have admired, and Boyer 
 have applauded ; but Smith or Atwood (writing- 
 masters) would have horsed you for. Your boy- 
 of-genius hand and your mercantile hand are 
 various. By your flourishes, I should think you 
 never learned to make eagles or corkscrews, or 
 
 256 
 
flourish the governors' names in the writing- 
 school ; and by the tenor and cut of your letters 
 I suspect you were never in it at all. By the 
 length of this scrawl you will think I have a 
 design upon your optics ; but I have writ as 
 large as I could out of respect to them — too 
 large, indeed, for beauty. Mine is a sort of 
 deputy Grecian's hand ; a little better, and more 
 of a worldly hand, than a Grecian's, but still 
 remote from the mercantile. I don't know how 
 it is, but I keep my rank in fancy still since 
 school-days. I can never forget I was a deputy 
 Grecian ! And writing to you, or to Coleridge, 
 besides affection, I feel a reverential deference 
 as to Grecians still. I keep my soaring way above 
 the Great Erasmians, yet far beneath the other. 
 Alas ! what am I now ? what is a Leadenhall 
 clerk or India pensioner to a deputy Grecian ? 
 How art thou fallen, O Lucifer ! Just room for 
 our loves to Mrs. D., &c, C. Lamb 
 
 DCLVIII.— TO HENRY F. CARY 
 
 April 13,1831. 
 
 Dear C, — I am daily for this week expect- 
 ing Wordsworth, who will not name a day. I 
 have been expecting him by months and by 
 weeks ; but he has reduced the hope within the 
 seven fractions hebdomidal of this hebdoma. 
 Therefore I am sorry I cannot see you on 
 Thursday. I think within a week or two I shall 
 
 257 
 
be able to invite myself some day for a day, but 
 we hermits with difficulty poke out of our shells. 
 Within that ostraceous retirement I meditate 
 not unfrequently on you. My sister's kindest 
 remembrances to you both. C. L. 
 
 DCLIX. — TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 April 30, 1 83 1. 
 
 Vir bone ! — Recepi literas tuas amicissimas, et 
 in mentem venit responsuro mihi, vel raro, vel nun- 
 quam, inter nos intercedisse Latinam linguam, 
 organum rescribendi, loquendive. Epistolae tuae, 
 Plinianis elegantiis (supra quod Tremulo deceat) 
 refertae, tarn a verbis Plinianis adeo abhorrent, ut 
 ne vocem quamquam (Romanam scilicet) habere 
 videaris, quam "ad canem," ut aiunt, " reiectare 
 possis." Forsan desuetudo Latinissandi ad ver- 
 naculam linguam usitandam, plusquam opus sit, 
 coegit. Per adagia quaedam nota, et in ore om- 
 nium pervulgata, ad Latinitatis perditae recuper- 
 ationem revocare te institui. 
 
 Felis in abaco est, et aegre videt. 
 
 Omne quod splendet nequaquam aurum putes. 
 
 Imponas equo mendicum, equitabit idem ad 
 diabolum. 
 
 Fur commode a fure prenditur. 
 
 O Maria, Maria, valde contraria, quomodo 
 crescit hortulus tuus ? 
 
 Nunc maiora canamus. 
 
 Thomas, Thomas, de Islington, uxorem duxit 
 258 
 
die nupera Dominica. Reduxit domum postera. 
 Succedenti baculum emit. Postridie ferit illam. 
 Aegrescit ilia subsequent. Proxima (nempe 
 Veneris) est mortua. Plurimum gestiit Thomas, 
 quod appropinquanti Sabbato efferenda sit. 
 
 Horner quidam Iohannulus in angulo sedebat, 
 artocreas quasdam deglutiens. Inseruit pollices, 
 pruna nana evellens, et magna voce exclamavit 
 " Dii boni, quam bonus puer no ! " 
 
 Diddle-diddle-dumkins ! meus unicus filius Io- 
 hannes cubitum ivit, integris braccis, caliga una 
 tantum, indutus. Diddle-diddle, etc. Da Capo. 
 
 Hie adsum saltans Ioannula. Cum nemo adsit 
 mihi, semper resto sola. 
 
 Aenigma mihi hoc solvas, et Oedipus fies. 
 
 Qua ratione assimulandus sit equus Tremulo ? 
 
 Quippe cui tota communicatio sit per Hay et 
 Neigh, iuxta consilium illud Dominicum, "Fiat 
 omnis communicatio vestra Yea et Nay." 
 
 In his nugis caram diem consumo, dum invi- 
 gilo valetudini carioris nostrae Emmae, quae apud 
 nos iamdudum aegrotat. Salvere vos iubet mecum 
 Maria mea, ipsa integra valetudine. Elia 
 
 Ab agro Enfeldiense datum, Aprilis nescio 
 quibus Calendis. Davus sum, non Calendarius. 
 P. S. Perdita in toto est Billa Reformatura. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [The following translation is by Mr. Stephen Gwynn : 
 Good Sir, — I have received your most kind letter, and it 
 
 259 
 
has entered my mind as I began to reply, that the Latin tongue 
 has seldom or never been used between us as the instrument 
 of converse or correspondence. Your letters, filled with Plinian 
 elegancies (more than becomes a Quaker), are so alien to Pliny's 
 language, that you seem not to have a word (that is, a Roman 
 word) to throw, as the saying is, at a dog. Perchance the dis- 
 use of Latinising had constrained you more than is right to the 
 use of the vernacular. I have determined to recall you to the 
 recovery of your lost Latinity by certain well-known adages 
 common in all mouths. 
 
 The cat 's in the cupboard and she can't see. 
 
 All that glitters is not gold. 
 
 Set a beggar on horseback and he '11 ride to the devil. 
 
 Set a thief to catch a thief. 
 
 Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow ? 
 Now let us sing of weightier matters. 
 
 Tom, Tom, of Islington, wed a wife on Sunday. He brought 
 her home on Monday. Bought a stick on Tuesday. Beat her well 
 on Wednesday. She was sick on Thursday. Dead on Friday. 
 Tom was glad on Saturday night to bury his wife on Sunday. 
 
 Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, eating his Christmas pie. 
 He put in his thumb and drew out a plum and cried " Good 
 Heavens, what a good boy am I ! " 
 
 Diddle, diddle, dumkins ! my son John went to bed with his 
 breeches on ; one shoe off" and the other shoe on, diddle, 
 diddle, etc. (Da Capo.) 
 
 Here am I, jumping Joan. When no one 's by, I 'm all alone. 
 
 Solve me this enigma, you shall be an CEdipus. 
 
 Why is a horse like a Quaker ? 
 
 Because all his communication is by Hay and Neigh, after 
 the Lord's counsel, " Let all your communication be Yea and 
 Nay." 
 
 In these trifles I waste the precious day, while watching over 
 the health of our more precious Emma, who has been sick in 
 our house this long time. My Mary sends you greeting with 
 me, she herself in sound health. 
 
 Given from the Enfield country seat, on I know not what 
 Calends of April. I am Davus, not an Almanac. 
 
 P. S. The Reform Bill is lost altogether.] 
 
 260 
 
DCLX. — TO HENRY F. CARY 
 
 Datum ab agro Enfeldiensi, 
 Maii die sexta, 1831. 
 
 Assidens est mihi bona soror, Euripiden evolv- 
 ens, donum vestrum, carissime Cary, pro quo 
 gratias agimus, lecturi atque iterum lecturi 
 idem. Pergratus est liber ambobus, nempe Sa- 
 cerdotis Commiserationis, sacrum opus a te ipso 
 humanissimae religionis sacerdote dono datum. 
 Lachrymantes gavisuri sumus; est ubi dolor fiat 
 voluptas ; nee semper dulce mihi est ridere ; 
 aliquando commutandum est he! he! he! cum 
 heu ! heu ! heu ! 
 
 A Musis Tragicis me non penitus abhorruisse 
 testis sit Carmen Calamitosum, nescio quo autore 
 lingua prius vernacula scriptum, et nuperrime 
 a me ipso Latine versum, scilicet, Tom Tom of 
 Islington. Tenuistine ? 
 
 Thomas Thomas de Islington, 
 
 Uxorem duxit die quadam Solis, 
 
 Abduxit domum sequenti die, 
 
 Emit baculum subsequenti, 
 
 Vapulat ilia postera, 
 
 Aegrotat succedenti, mortua fit crastina. 
 
 Et miro gaudio afficitur Thomas luce postera quod 
 subsequenti (nempe, Dominica) uxor sit efFer- 
 enda. 
 
 En Iliades domesticas ! 
 En circulum calamitatum ! 
 Plane hebdomadalem tragoediam. 
 
 I nunc et confer Euripiden vestrum his luctibus, 
 
 261 
 
hac morte uxoria ; confer Alcesten ! Hecuben ! 
 quasnon antiquas heroinas dolorosas. 
 
 Suffundor genas lachrymis, tantas strages re- 
 volvens. Quid restat nisi quod tecum tuam Caram 
 salutamus ambosque valere iubeamus, nosmet ipsi 
 bene valentes. Elia 
 
 note 
 
 [The following translation is by Mr. Stephen Gwynn : 
 Sitting by me is my good sister, turning over Euripides, your 
 gift, dear Cary [a pun here, " carissime care "], for which we 
 thank you, and will read and re-read it. Most acceptable to 
 both of us is this book of Pity's Priest, a sacred work of your 
 bestowing, yourself a priest of the most humane religion. We 
 shall take our pleasure weeping; there are times when pain 
 turns pleasure, and I would not always be laughing : sometimes 
 there should be a change — heu! heu! for he! he! 
 
 That I have not shrunk from the Tragic Muses, witness this 
 Lamentable Ballad, first written in the vernacular by I know 
 not what author and lately by myself put into Latin, T. T. of 
 Islington. Have you heard it ? (See translation of preceding 
 Utter.) 
 
 And Thomas is possessed with a wondrous joy on the fol- 
 lowing morning, because on the next day, that is, Sunday, his 
 wife must be buried. 
 
 Lo, your domestic Iliads ! 
 
 Lo, the wheel of calamities I 
 
 The true tragedy of a week. 
 
 Go to now, compare your Euripides with these sorrows, this 
 death of a wife ! Compare Alcestis ! Hecuba ! or what not 
 other sorrowing heroines of antiquity. 
 
 My cheeks are tear-bedewed as I revolve such slaughter. 
 What more to say, but to salute you Cary and your Cara, and 
 wish you health, ourselves enjoying it.] 
 
 262 
 
DCLXL — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 July 14, 1 83 1. 
 
 Collier's book would be right acceptable. And 
 also a sixth volume just publish' d of Nichols's 
 Illustrations of the Literary History of 18th Cen- 
 tury. I agree with you, and do yet not disagree 
 with W. W., as to H[unt]. It rejoyced my heart 
 to read his friendly spirited mention of your pub- 
 lications. It might be a drawback to my pleas- 
 ure, that he has tried to decry my "Nicky," but 
 on deliberate re- and reperusal of his censure I 
 cannot in the remotest degree understand what 
 he means to say. He and I used to dispute about 
 hell eternities, I taking the affirmative. I love to 
 puzzle atheists, and — parsons. I fancy it runs in 
 his head, that I meant to rivet the idea of a per- 
 sonal devil. Then about the glorious three days ! 
 there was never a year or day in my past life, 
 since I was pen-worthy, that I should not have 
 written precisely as I have. 
 
 Logic and modesty are not among H.'s virtues. 
 Talfourd flatters me upon a poem which " no- 
 body but I could have written," but which I have 
 neither seen nor heard of, — The Banquet, or "Ban- 
 queting Something," that has appeared in The Tat- 
 ler. Know you of it ? How capitally the French- 
 man has analysed Satan! I was hinder'd, or I was 
 about doing the same thing in English, for him 
 to put into French, as I prosified Hood's mid- 
 summer fairies. The garden of cabbage escap'd 
 
 263 
 
him ; he turns it into a garden of pot-herbs. So 
 local allusions perish in translation. 
 
 About eight days before you told me of R.'s 
 interview with the Premier, I, at the desire of 
 Badams, wrote a letter to him (Badams) in the 
 most moving terms setting forth the age, infirm- 
 ities, &c, of Coleridge. This letter was convey'd 
 by B. to his friend Mr. Ellice of the Treasury, 
 brother-in-law to Lord Grey, who immediately 
 pass'd it on to Lord Grey, who assured him of 
 immediate relief by a grant on the King's bounty, 
 which news E. communicated to B. with a de- 
 sire to confer with me on the subject, on which 
 I went up to the Treasury (yesterday fortnight) 
 and was received by the great man with the 
 utmost cordiality (shook hands with me coming 
 and going) ; a fine hearty gentleman, and, as 
 seeming willing to relieve any anxiety from me, 
 promised me an answer thro' Badams in two or 
 three days at furthest. Meantime Gilman's ex- 
 traordinary insolent letter comes out in the Times! 
 As to my acquiescing in this strange step, I told 
 Mr. Ellice (who expressly said that the thing was 
 renewable three-yearly) that I consider'd such 
 a grant as almost equivalent to the lost pension, as 
 from C.'s appearance and the representations of 
 the Gilmans, I scarce could think C.'s life worth 
 two years' purchase. I did not know that the 
 chancellor had been previously applied to. Well, 
 after seeing Ellice I wrote in the most urgent 
 manner to the Gilmans, insisting on an immedi- 
 
 264 
 
ate letter of acknowledgment from Coleridge, or 
 them in his name to Badams, who not knowing 
 C. had come forward so disinterestedly amidst his 
 complicated illnesses and embarrassments, to use 
 up an interest, which he may so well need, in 
 favour of a stranger; and from that day not a letter 
 has B. or even myself, received from Highgate, 
 unless that published one in the Times is meant as 
 a general answer to all the friends who have stirr'd 
 to do C. service ! Poor C. is not to blame, for he 
 is in leading-strings. I particularly wish you 
 would read this part of my note to Mr. Rogers. 
 Now for home matters. Our next two Sundays 
 will be choked up with all the Sugdens. The 
 third will be free, when we hope you will show 
 your sister the way to Enfield and leave her with 
 us for a few days. In the meanwhile, could you 
 not run down some week day (afternoon, say) and 
 sleep at the Horse Shoe ? I want to have my sec- 
 ond volume Elias bound specimen fashion, and to 
 consult you about 'em. Kenney has just assured 
 me that he has just touch'd j£ioo from the 
 theatre ; you are a damn'd fool if you don't exact 
 your tythe of him, and with that assurance I rest, 
 Your brother fool, C. L. 
 
 DCLXII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 Early August, 1831. 
 
 Dear M., — The R.A. here memorised was 
 George Dawe, whom I knew well and heard 
 
 265 
 
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 
 wild fire among the Royal Academicians and 
 artists. Could you get hold of Proctor — his 
 chambers are in Lincoln's Inn, at Montagu's 
 — or of Janus Weathercock ? — both of their 
 prose is capital. Don't encourage poetry. The 
 Peter s Net does not intend funny things only. 
 All is fish. And leave out the sickening E/ia 
 at the end. Then it may comprise letters and 
 characters addrest to Peter — but a signature 
 forces it to be all characteristic of the one man 
 Elia, or the one man Peter, which cramped me 
 formerly. 
 
 I have agreed not for my sister to know the 
 subjects I chuse till the magazine comes out ; so 
 beware of speaking of 'em, or writing about 
 'em, save generally. Be particular about this 
 warning. Can't you drop in some afternoon, 
 and take a bed ? 
 
 The Athenaeum has been hoaxed with some 
 exquisite poetry that was two or three months 
 ago in Hone's Book. I like your first Number 
 capitally. But is it not small ? 
 
 Come and see us, week-day if possible. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 Pray forward the enclosed, or put it in the 
 post. 
 
 266 
 
DCLXIII. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 August 4, 1 83 1. 
 
 My dear Boy, — Scamper off with this to 
 Dilke, and get it in for to-morrow; then we 
 shall have two things in in the first week. 
 
 Your Laureat 
 
 DCLXIV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 1831. 
 
 Dear M., — I have ingeniously contrived to 
 review myself. Tell me if this will do. Mind, 
 for such things as these — half quotations — I do 
 not charge Elia price. Let me hear of, if not 
 see you. Peter 
 
 DCLXV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 August 5, 1 83 1. 
 
 Send, or bring me, Hone's Number for Au- 
 gust. 
 
 Hunt is a fool, and his critics. The anecdotes 
 of E. and of G. D. are substantially true. What 
 does Elia (or Peter) care for dates ? 
 
 That is the poem I mean. I do not know 
 who wrote it, but it is in Hone's book as far 
 back as April. 
 
 ' T is a poem I envy — that and Montgomery's 
 Last Man (nothing else of his). I envy the writ- 
 ers, because I feel I could have done something 
 
 267 
 
like it. S is a coxcomb. W is a 
 
 and a great poet. L. 
 
 DCLXVI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 This instant received, this instant I answer 
 your's — Dr. Cresswell has one copy, which I 
 cannot just now re-demand, because at his desire 
 I have sent on Satan to him, which when he 
 ask'd for, I frankly told him, was imputed a 
 lampoon on him ! I have sent it him, and can- 
 not, till we come to explanation, go to him or 
 send. 
 
 But on the faith of a gentleman, you shall have 
 it back some Any for Another. The three I send. 
 I think two of the blunders perfectly immaterial. 
 But your feelings, and I fear pocket, is every- 
 thing. I have just time to pack this off by the 
 two o'clock stage. Yours till we meet. 
 
 At all events I behave more gentlemanlike 
 than Emma did, in returning the copies. 
 
 Yours till we meet — do come. Bring the 
 sonnets. 
 
 Why not publish 'em — or let another book- 
 seller ? 
 
 DCLXVII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 September 5, 1831. 
 
 Dear M., — Your letter's contents pleased me. 
 I am only afraid of taxing you, yet I want a 
 
 268 
 
stimulus, or I think I should drag sadly. I shall 
 keep the monies in trust till I see you fairly over 
 the next ist January. Then I shall look upon 
 'em as earned. Colburn shall be written to. No 
 part of yours gave me more pleasure (no, not the 
 j£io, tho' you may grin) than that you will re- 
 visit old Enfield, which I hope will be always 
 a pleasant idea to you. 
 
 Yours very faithfully, C. L. 
 
 DCLXVIII. — TO WILLIAM HAZLITT, Jr. 
 
 September 13, 1831. 
 
 Dear William, — We have a sick house, Mrs. 
 Westwood's daughter in a fever, and grand- 
 daughter in the measles, and it is better to see no 
 company just now ; but in a week or two we shall 
 be very glad to see you ; come at a hazard then, 
 on a week-day if you can, because Sundays are 
 stuff' d up with friends on both parts of this great 
 ill-mix' d family. Your second letter, dated third 
 September, came not till Sunday and we staid 
 at home in evening, in expectation of seeing 
 you. 
 
 I have turned and twisted what you ask'd me 
 to do in my head, and am obliged to say I cannot 
 undertake it — but as a composition for declining 
 it, will you accept some verses which I meditate 
 to be addrest to you on your father, and prefix- 
 able to your Life ? Write me word that I may 
 have 'em ready against I see you some ten days 
 
 269 
 
hence, when I calculate the house will be unin- 
 fected. Send your mother's address. 
 
 If you are likely to be again at Cheshunt before 
 that time, on second thoughts, drop in here, and 
 consult, Yours, C. L. 
 
 Not a line is yet written — so say, if I shall 
 do 'em. 
 
 DCLXIX. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 October 24, 1831. 
 
 To address an abdicated monarch is a nice point 
 of breeding. To give him his lost titles is to 
 mock him ; to withhold 'em is to wound him. 
 But his minister who falls with him may be 
 gracefully sympathetic. I do honestly feel for 
 your diminution of honours, and regret even the 
 pleasing cares which are part and parcel of great- 
 ness. Your magnanimous submission, and the 
 cheerful tone of your renunciation, in a letter 
 which, without flattery, would have made an 
 " Article" and which, rarely as I keep letters, 
 shall be preserved, comfort me a little. Will it 
 please, or plague you, to say that when your parcel 
 came I damned it, for my pen was warming in 
 my hand at a ludicrous description of a landscape 
 of an R. A., which I calculated upon sending you 
 to-morrow, the last day you gave me. Now any 
 one calling in, or a letter coming, puts an end to 
 my writing for the day. Little did I think that 
 
 270 
 
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 remain- 
 ing. 
 
 To drop metaphors, I am sure you have done 
 wisely. The very spirit of your epistle speaks that 
 you have a weight off your mind. I have one on 
 mine. The cash in hand, which, as ***** * less 
 truly says, burns in my pocket. I feel queer at 
 returning it (who does not ?). You feel awkward 
 at re-taking it (who ought not?). Is there no 
 middle way of adjusting this fine embarrassment? 
 I think I have hit upon a medium to skin the 
 sore place over, if not quite to heal it. You hinted 
 that there might be something under ^"10 by 
 and by accruing to me, Devil's Money. You are 
 sanguine — say £j.ios. — that I entirely re- 
 nounce 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 convert 
 me to Unitarianism ? Dear blundering soul ! why 
 I am as old a one-Goddite as himself. Or did he 
 
 271 
 
think his cheap publication would bring over the 
 Methodists over the way here ? However, I '11 
 give it to the pew-opener (in whom I have a 
 little interest) to hand over to the clerk, whose 
 wife she sometimes drinks tea with, for him to 
 lay before the deacon, who exchanges the civility 
 of the hat with him, for him to transmit to the 
 minister, who shakes hand with him out of 
 
 chapel, and he, in all odds, will 
 
 with it. 
 
 I wish very much to see you. I leave it to you 
 to come how you will. We shall be very glad 
 (we need not repeat) to see your sister, or sisters, 
 with you ; but for you individually I will just 
 hint that a dropping in to tea unlook'd for about 
 five, stopping bread-n-cheese and gin-and-water, 
 is worth a thousand Sundays. I am naturally 
 miserable on a Sunday, but a week-day evening 
 and supper is like old times. Set out now, and 
 give no time to deliberation. 
 
 P. S. The second volume of Elia is delight- 
 fully bound, I mean) and quite cheap. Why, 
 man, 't is a unique. 
 
 If I write much more I shall expand into an 
 article, which I cannot afford to let you have so 
 cheap. 
 
 By the by, to shew the perverseness of human 
 will — while I thought I must furnish one of 
 those accursed things monthly, it seemed a labour 
 above Hercules's " Twelve " in a year, which 
 were evidently monthly contributions. Now I 
 
 272 
 
am emancipated, I feel as if I had a thousand 
 essays swelling within me. False feelings both. 
 
 I have lost Mr. Aitken's town address — do you 
 know it ? Is he there ? 
 
 Your ex-Lampoonist, or Lamb-punnist — 
 from Enfield, Oct. 24, or " last day but one for 
 receiving articles that can be inserted." 
 
 DCLXX. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 December 15, 1831. 
 
 Dear M., — S. \ probably Southey] I know, 
 has an aversion, amounting almost to horror, of 
 H. [probably Hunt]. He -would not lend his name. 
 The other I might wring a guinea from, but he 
 is very properly shy of his guineas. It would be 
 improper in me to apply to him, and impertin- 
 ent to the other. I hope this will satisfy you, 
 but don't give my reason to H.'s friend, simply 
 say I decline it. 
 
 I am very much obliged to you for thinking 
 of Cary. Put me down seven shillings (was n't 
 it ?) in your books, and I set you down for more 
 in my good ones. One copy will go down to 
 immortality now, the more lasting as the less its 
 leaves are disturbed. This letter willcost you 
 3*/. ; but I did not like to be silent on the above. 
 
 Nothing with my name will sell ; a blast is 
 upon it. Do not think of such a thing, unless 
 ever you become rich enough to speculate. 
 
 Being praised, and being bought, are different 
 273 
 
things to a book. Fancy books sell from fashion, 
 not from the number of their real likers. Do 
 not come at so long intervals. Here we are sure 
 to be. 
 
 DCLXXI. — TO J. HUME'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 1832. 
 
 Many thanks for the wrap-rascal, but how 
 delicate the insinuating in, into the pocket, of 
 that 3 y 2 d., in paper too ! Who was it ? Amelia, 
 Caroline, Julia, Augusta, or " Scots who have " ? 
 
 As a set-off to the very handsome present, 
 which I shall lay out in a pot of ale certainly to 
 her health, I have paid sixpence for the mend 
 of two button-holes of the coat now return'd. 
 She shall not have to say, " I don't care a button 
 for her." 
 
 Adieu, tres aimables ! 
 
 Buttons bd. 
 
 Gift 1% 
 
 Due from . . . z l / 2 
 
 which pray accept * * * from your foolish coat- 
 forgetting, C. L. 
 
 DCLXXII. — TO CHARLES W. DILKE 
 
 March 5, 1832. 
 
 Dear Sir, — My friend Aders, a German mer- 
 chant, German born, has open'd to the public 
 
 274 
 
at the Suffolk St. gallery his glorious collection 
 of old Dutch and German pictures. Pray see 
 them. You have only to name my name, and 
 have a ticket — if you have not received one 
 already. You will possibly notice 'em, and 
 might lug in the inclosed, 1 which I wrote for 
 Hone's Tear Book, and has appear'd only there, 
 when the pictures were at home in Euston 
 Square. The fault of this matchless set of pic- 
 tures is, the admitting a few Italian pictures with 
 
 1 TO C. ADERS, Esc.. 
 
 On bis Collection of Paintings by the old German Masters 
 
 Friendliest of men, Aders, I never come 
 Within the precincts of this sacred room, 
 But I am struck with a religious fear, 
 Which says, "Let no profane eye enter here." 
 With imagery from heav'n the walls are clothed, 
 Making the things of time seem vile and loathed. 
 Spare saints, whose bodies seem sustain' d by love 
 With martyrs old in meek procession move. 
 Here kneels a weeping Magdalen, less bright 
 To human sense for her blurr'd cheeks ; in sight 
 Of eyes, new-touch' d by heaven, more winning fair 
 Than when her beauty was her only care. 
 A hermit here strange mysteries doth unlock 
 In desart sole, his knees worn by the rock. 
 There angel harps are sounding, while below 
 Palm-bearing virgins in white order go. 
 Madonnas, varied with so chaste design, 
 While all are different, each seems genuine, 
 And hers the only Jesus : hard outline, 
 And rigid form, by Durer's hand subdued 
 To matchless grace, and sacro-sanctitude ; 
 Dvirer, who makes thy slighted Germany 
 Vie with the praise of paint-proud Italy. 
 
 Whoever enter' st here, no more presume 
 To name a parlour, or a drawing-room ; 
 But, bending lowly to each holy story, 
 Make this thy chapel and thine oratory. 
 
 27S 
 
'em, which I would turn out to make the col- 
 lection unique and pure. Those old Albert 
 Diirers have not had their fame. I have tried to 
 illustrate 'em. If you print my verses, a copy, 
 please, for me. 
 
 DCLXX1II. — TO S. T COLERIDGE 
 
 April 14, 1832. 
 
 My dear Coleridge, — Not an unkind thought 
 has passed in my brain about you. But I have 
 been wofully neglectful of you, so that I do not 
 deserve to announce to you that, if I do not hear 
 from you before then, I will set out on Wednes- 
 day morning to take you by the hand. I would 
 do it this moment, but an unexpected visit might 
 flurry you. I shall take silence for acquiescence, 
 and come. I am glad you could write so long a 
 letter. Old loves to, and hope of kind looks from, 
 the Gilmans, when I come. 
 
 Yours, semper idem, C. L. 
 
 If you ever thought an offence, much more 
 wrote it, against me, it must have been in the 
 times of Noah; and the great waters swept it 
 away. Mary's most kind love, and maybe a 
 wrong prophet of your bodings ! — here she is 
 crying for mere love over your letter. I wring 
 out less, but not sincerer, showers. 
 
 My direction is simply, Enfield. 
 
 276 
 
DCLXXIV. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 Late April, 1832. 
 
 One day in my life 
 
 Do come. C. L. 
 
 I have placed poor Mary at Edmonton, — I 
 shall be very glad to see the Hunchback and 
 Straitback the first evening they can come. I am 
 very poorly indeed. I have been cruelly thrown 
 out. Come and don't let me drink too much. 
 I drank more yesterday than I ever did any one 
 day in my life. C. L. 
 
 Do come. Cannot your sister come and take 
 a half bed — or a whole one? Which, alas, we 
 have to spare. 
 
 DCLXXV.— TO EDWARD MOXON (?) 
 
 June 1, 1832. 
 
 I am a little more than half alive. I was more 
 than half dead. The ladies are very agreeable. 
 I flatter myself I am less than disagreeable. Con- 
 vey this to Mr. Forster, whom with you I shall 
 just be able to see some ten days hence, and be- 
 lieve me, ever yours, C. L. 
 
 I take Forster's name to be John ; but you 
 know whom I mean, the Pym-praiser, not pimp- 
 raiser. 
 
 277 
 
DCLXXVI. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 [No date.] 
 {With Acrostics enclosed') 
 
 TO M. L. [MARY LOCKE] 
 
 M ust I write with pen unwilling, 
 A nd describe those graces killing, 
 R ightly, which I never saw ? 
 Yes — it is the album's law. 
 
 L et me then invention strain, 
 
 O n your excellence grace to feign, 
 
 C old is fiction. I believe it 
 
 K indly as I did receive it ; 
 
 E ven as I, F.'s tongue, did weave it. 
 
 TO S. L. [SARAH LOCKE] 
 
 S hall I praise a face unseen, 
 A nd extol a fancied mien, 
 R ave on visionary charm, 
 A nd from shadows take alarm ! 
 H atred hates without a cause, 
 
 L ove may love without applause, 
 O r, without a reason given, 
 C harmed be with unknown heaven. 
 K eep the secret, though, unmocked, 
 E ver in your bosom Locked. 
 
 Am I right? Sarah I distinctly remember; 
 but Mary I am not sure ought not to be Anne. 
 It is soon rectified in that case. Tou I take to be 
 John. 
 
 C. L. 
 278 
 
DCLXXVII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 July 12, 1832. 
 
 Dear M., — My hand shakes so, I can hardly 
 say don't come yet. I have been worse to-day 
 than you saw me. I am going to try water gruel 
 and quiet if I can get it. But a visitor has just 
 been down, and another a day or two before, 
 and I feel half frantic. I will write when better. 
 Make excuses to Forster for the present. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 DCLXXVIII. — TO WALTER WILSON 
 
 August, 1832. 
 
 My dear Wilson, — I cannot let my old friend 
 Mrs. Hazlitt (sister-in-law to poor Wm. Hazlitt) 
 leave Enfield, without endeavouring to introduce 
 her to you, and to Mrs. Wilson. Her daughter 
 has a school in your neighbourhood, and for her 
 talents and for her merits I can answer. If it lies 
 in your power to be useful to them in any way, 
 the obligation to your old office-fellow will be 
 great. I have not forgotten Mrs. Wilson's album, 
 and if you, or she, will be the means of procur- 
 ing but one pupil for Miss Hazlitt, I will rub 
 up my poor poetic faculty to the best. But you 
 and she will one day, I hope, bring the album 
 with you to Enfield. Poor Mary is ill, or would 
 send her love. Yours very truly, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 279 
 
News. — Collet is dead, Du Puy is dead. I am 
 not. — Hone is turned believer in Irving and his 
 unknown tongues ! 
 
 In the name of dear Defoe, which alone might 
 be a bond of union between us, adieu ! 
 
 DCLXXIX. — TO HENRY C. ROBINSON 
 
 Early October, 1832. 
 
 For Landor's kindness I have just esteem. I 
 shall tip him a letter, when you tell me how to 
 address him. 
 
 Give Emma's kindest regrets that I could not 
 entice her good friend, your nephew, here. 
 
 Her warmest love to the Bury Robinsons — 
 our all three to H. Crab. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 Accompanying copy of Landor's verses to 
 Emma Isola, and others, contributed to Miss 
 Wordsworth's album, and poem written at Wast- 
 water. 
 
 DCLXXX. — TO WALTER S. LANDOR 
 
 October, 1832. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Pray accept a little volume. 'T is 
 a legacy from Elia, you '11 see. Silver and gold 
 had he none, but such as he had, left he you. I 
 do not know how to thank you for attending to 
 my request about the album. I thought you 
 
 280 
 
would never remember it. Are not you proud 
 and thankful, Emma? 
 
 Yes, very, both — Emma Isola 
 
 Many things I had to say to you, which there 
 was not time for. One why should I forget ? 't is 
 for Rose Aylmer, which has a charm I cannot 
 explain. I lived upon it for weeks. 
 
 Next I forgot to tell you I knew all your Welch 
 annoyancers, the measureless Beethams. I knew 
 a quarter of a mile of them. Seventeen brothers 
 and sixteen sisters, as they appear to me in mem- 
 ory. There was one of them that used to fix his 
 long legs on my fender, and tell a story of a 
 shark, every night, endless, immortal. How have 
 I grudged the salt sea ravener not having had his 
 gorge of him ! 
 
 The shortest of the daughters measured five 
 foot eleven without her shoes. Well, some day 
 we may confer about them. But they were tall. 
 Surely I have discover'd the longitude. 
 
 Sir, if you can spare a moment, I should be 
 happy to hear from you; that rogue Robinson 
 detained your verses, till I call'd for them. Don't 
 entrust a bit of prose to the rogue, but believe 
 me, Your obliged, C. L. 
 
 My sister sends her kind regards. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [Crabb Robinson took Landor to see Lamb on September 
 28, 1832. The following passage in Forster's Life of Landor 
 describes the visit and explains this letter ; 
 
 28l 
 
The hour he passed with Lamb was one of unalloyed enjoyment. A 
 letter from Crabb Robinson before he came over had filled him with 
 affection for that most loveable of men, who had not an infirmity to which 
 his sweetness of nature did not give something of kinship to a virtue. " I 
 have just seen Charles and Mary Lamb," Crabb Robinson had written 
 (20th October, 183 1), "living in absolute solitude at Enfield. I find your 
 poems lying open before Lamb. Both tipsy and sober he is ever muttering 
 Rose Aylmer. But it is not those lines only that have a curious fascination 
 for him. He is always turning to Gebir for things that haunt him in the 
 same way." Their first and last hour was now passed together, and before 
 they parted they were old friends. I visited Lamb myself (with Barry 
 Cornwall) the following month, and remember the boyish delight with 
 which he read to us the verses which Landor had written in the album of 
 Emma Isola. He had just received them through Robinson, and had lost 
 little time in making rich return by sending Landor his Last Essays of 
 Elia. 
 
 Landor wrote to Lady Blessington : 
 
 I do not think that you ever knew Charles Lamb, who is lately dead. 
 Robinson took me to see him. 
 
 "Once, and once only, have I seen thy face, 
 Elia! once only has thy tripping tongue 
 Run o'er my heart, yet never has been left 
 Impression on it stronger or more sweet. 
 Cordial old man! what youth was in thy years, 
 What wisdom in thy levity, what soul 
 In every utterance of thy purest breast! 
 Of all that ever wore man's form, 'tis thee 
 I first would spring to at the gate of Heaven." 
 
 I say tripping tongue, for Charles Lamb stammered and spoke hur- 
 riedly. He did not think it worth while to put on a fine new coat to come 
 down and see me in, as poor Coleridge did, but met me as if I had been 
 a friend of twenty years' standing ; indeed, he told me I had been so, and 
 shewed me some things I had written much longer ago, and had utterly 
 forgotten. The world will never see again two such delightful volumes as 
 The Essays of Elia ; no man living is capable of writing the worst twenty 
 pages of them. The Continent has Zadig and Gil Bias, we have Elia and 
 Sir Roger de Coverly.] 
 
 DCLXXXI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 Late 1832. 
 
 A poor mad usher (and schoolfellow of mine) 
 282 
 
has been pestering me through you with poetry and 
 petitions. I have desired him to call upon you for 
 a half sovereign, which place to my account. 
 
 I have buried Mrs. Reynolds at last, who has 
 virtually at least bequeath'd me a legacy of ^32 
 per annum, to which add that my other pen- 
 sioner is safe housed in the workhouse, which 
 gets me ^10. 
 
 Richer by both legacies ^42 per annum. For 
 a loss of a loss is as good as a gain of a gain. But 
 let this be between ourselves, specially keep it from 
 
 A or I shall speedily have candidates for the 
 
 pensions. Mary is laid up with a cold. Will you 
 convey the inclosed by hand? 
 
 When you come, if you ever do, bring me one 
 Devil's Visit, I mean Southey's; also the Hogarth 
 which is complete, Noble's I think. Six more 
 letters to do. Bring my bill also. C. L. 
 
 DCLXXXII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 Winter, 1832. 
 
 Thank you for the books. I am ashamed to 
 take tythe thus of your press. I am worse to a 
 publisher than the two Universities and the Brit- 
 ish Museum. A[llan] C [unningham] I will forth- 
 with read. B[arry] C[ornwall] (I can't get out 
 of the A, B, C) I have more than read. Taken 
 altogether, 't is too lovey ; but what delicacies ! 
 I like most King Death ; glorious 'bove all, The 
 Lady with the Hundred Rings; The Owl ; Epistle 
 
 283 
 
to What *s his Name (here may be I 'm partial) ; 
 Sit down, Sad Soul; The Pauper s Jubilee (but that ' s 
 old, and yet 'tis never old); The Falcon; Felon's 
 Wife; damn "Madame Pasty" (but that is bor- 
 rowed) : 
 
 Apple-pie is very good, 
 And so is apple-pasty ; 
 
 But 
 
 O Lard ! 't is very nasty : 
 
 but chiefly the dramatic fragments, — scarce three 
 of which should have escaped my Specimens, had 
 an antique name been prefixed. They exceed his 
 first. So much for the nonsense of poetry ; now 
 to the serious business of life. 
 
 Up a court (Blandford Court) in Pall Mall 
 (exactly at the back, of Marlbro' House), with 
 iron gate in front, and containing two houses, at 
 No. 2 did lately live Leishman my taylor. He is 
 moved somewhere in the neighbourhood, devil 
 knows where. Pray find him out, and give him 
 the opposite. I am so much better, tho' my hand 
 shakes in writing it, that, after next Sunday, I can 
 well see F[orster] and you. Can you throw B. C. 
 in ? Why tarry the wheels of my Hogarth ? 
 
 Charles Lamb 
 
 note 
 
 [" I am worse to a publisher." There is a rule by which a 
 publisher must present copies of every book to the Stationers' 
 Hall, to be distributed to the British Museum, the Bodleian, 
 and Cambridge University Library. — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 284 
 
DCLXXXIII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 December, 1832. 
 
 This is my notion : wait till you are able to 
 throw away a round sum (say ^1500) upon a 
 speculation, and then — don't do it. For all your 
 loving encouragements, till this final damp came 
 in the shape of your letter, thanks — for books 
 also ; greet the Fosters and Proctors, and come 
 singly or conjunctively as soon as you can. John- 
 son and Fare's sheets have been wash'd — unless 
 you prefer Danby's last bed — at the Horseshoe. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [I assume Lamb's advice to refer to Moxon's intention of 
 founding a paper called The Reflector, which Forster was to 
 edit. All trace of this periodical has vanished, but it existed 
 in December, 1832, for three numbers, and was then with- 
 drawn. Lamb contributed to it. 
 
 Johnson and Fare had just murdered — on December 19 — 
 a Mr. Danby, at Enfield. They had met him in the Crown 
 and Horseshoe. 
 
 W. C. Hazlitt prints a note to Moxon in his Bohn edition 
 in which Lamb advises the withdrawal of The Reflector at 
 once. This would be December, 1832. — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 DCLXXXIV. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 To Messrs. Bradbury & Evans, 14 Bouverie 
 Street, Fleet Street. For the Editor of the Re- 
 flector, from C. Lamb. 
 
 December 23, 1832. 
 
 I am very sorry the poor Reflector is abortive. 
 
 285 
 
'T was a child of good promise for its weeks. But 
 if the chances are so much against it, withdraw 
 immediately. It is idle up-hill waste of money 
 to spend another stamp on it. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [Arc 
 " Obiit 
 
 Ground the seal of this note are the words in Lamb's hand : 
 Diit Edwardus Reflector Armiger, 31 Dec, 1832. Natus 
 tres hcbdomidas. Pax animae ejus." — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 DCLXXXV. — TO LOUISA BADAMS 
 
 December 31, 1832. 
 
 Dear Mrs. B., — Mary has not enterprise 
 enough to venture on a journey at this dreary 
 time of the year, and 't is too uncomfortable for 
 us to leave her, for a night even, to the discourt- 
 eous hospitalities of old frosty Westwood and his 
 thin spouse : types of Christmas turned sour, or 
 the first of January born with teeth and wrinkles. 
 Cordial Illcomes, Not Welcomes — " wretched 
 New Years to you:" Discompliments of the 
 Season. Spring, and we, will lure her out some 
 fine April day. Instead pray accept of our kind- 
 est congratulations. 
 
 Besides, I have been not a little disconcerted. 
 
 On the night of our murder (an hour or two 
 before it), the maid being busy, I went out to 
 order an additional pint of porter for Moxon, 
 who had surprised us with a late visit. Now I 
 never go out quite disinterested upon such occa- 
 
 286 
 
sions. And I begged a half-pint of ale at the bar 
 which our sweet-faced landlady good-humouredly 
 complied with, asking me into the parlour, but 
 a side door was just open that disclosed a more 
 cheerful blaze, and I entered where four people 
 were engaged over dominoes. One of them, 
 Fare, invited me to join in it, partly out of impu- 
 dence, I believe ; however, not to balk a Christ- 
 mas frolic, I complied, and played with Danby, 
 but soon gave over, having forgot the game. I 
 was surprised with D. challenging me as having 
 known me in the Temple. He must have been 
 a child then. I did not recognise him, but per- 
 fectly remembered his father, who was a hair- 
 dresser in the Temple. This was all that passed, 
 as I went away with my beer. Judge my sur- 
 prise when the next morning I was summoned 
 before Dr. Creswell to say what I knew of the 
 transaction. My examination was conducted 
 with all delicacy, and of course I was soon dis- 
 missed. I was afraid of getting into the papers, 
 but I was pleased to find myself only noticed as 
 a " gentleman whose name we could not gather." 
 Poor D.! the few words I spoke to him were to 
 remind him of a trick Jem White played upon 
 his father. The boy was too young to know 
 anything about it. In the Morning Post appeared 
 this paragraph : "Yesterday morning, Mr. Danby, 
 the respectable hairdresser in Pump Court in the 
 Temple, in a fit of delirium threw himself out 
 of a two pair stairs window, looking into the 
 
 287 
 
passage that leads to Fig-tree Court, and his head 
 was literally smashed to atoms." White went 
 to D.'s to see how it operated, and found D. 
 quietly weaving wigs, and the shop full of law- 
 yers that had come to enquire particulars. D. 
 was a man much respected. Indeed hairdressers 
 in the Inns of Court are a superior race of trades- 
 men. They generally leave off rich, as D. did. 
 Well, poor D. had never heard the story or prob- 
 ably forgotten it ; and his company looking on 
 me a little suspiciously, as they do at alehouses 
 when a rather better drest person than them- 
 selves attempts to join 'em — (it never answers, 
 — at least it seemed so to me when I heard of 
 the murder) — I went away. One often fancies 
 things afterwards that did not perhaps strike one 
 at the time. However, after all, I have felt queer 
 ever since. It has almost sickened me of the 
 Crown and Horseshoe, and I shan't hastily go 
 into the taproom again. I have made a long 
 letter and can just say good-bye, C. Lamb 
 
 DCLXXXVL — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 January, 1833. 
 
 I have a proof from Dilke. That serves for 
 next Saturday. What Forster had will serve a 
 second. I sent you a third concluding article for 
 him and us (a capital hit, I think, about Cer- 
 vantes), of which I leave you to judge whether 
 we shall not want it to print before a third or 
 
 288 
 
even second week. In that case beg D. to clap 
 them in all at once ; and keep the Athenceums 
 to print from. What I send is the concluding 
 article of the painters. 
 
 Soften down the title in the book to 
 "Defect of the Imaginative Faculty in Artists." 
 
 Consult Dilke. 
 
 DCLXXXVIL — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 January 3, 1833. 
 
 Be sure and let me have the Atheneeum — or, 
 if they don't appear, the copy back again. I 
 have no other. 
 
 I am glad you are introduced to Rickman; 
 cultivate the introduction. I will not forget to 
 write to him. I want to see Blackwood, but not 
 without you. We are yet Emma-less. And so 
 that is all I can remember. This is a corkscrew. 
 \Here is a florid corkscrew.] C. L. Fecit 
 
 C. Lamb, born 1775 ; 
 nourished about 
 the year 1832. 
 
 DCLXXXVIII. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 I wish you'd go to Dilke's, or let Mockson, 
 and ax him to add this to what I sent him a few 
 days since, or to continue it the week after. The 
 Plantas &c. are capital. Come down with Procter 
 and Dante on Sunday. I send you the last proof 
 
 289 
 
— not of my friendship. I knew you would like 
 the title. I do thoroughly.- The Last Essays of 
 Elia keeps out any notion of its being a second 
 volume. 
 
 PCLXXXIX. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 There was a talk of Richmond on Sunday; 
 but we were hampered with an unavoidable en- 
 gagement that day, besides that I wish to show 
 it you when the woods are in full leaf. Can you 
 have a quiet evening here to-night or to-morrow 
 night ? We are certainly at home. 
 
 Yours, C. Lamb 
 
 DCXC — TO PRINTER OF ATHENAEUM 
 
 January, 1833. 
 
 I have read the enclosed five-and-forty times 
 over. At last (O ! Argus penetration !) I have 
 discovered a dash that might be dispensed with. 
 Pray don't trouble yourself with such useless 
 courtesies. I can well trust your editor when I 
 don't use queer phrases which prove themselves 
 wrong by creating a distrust in the sober com- 
 positor. 
 
 DCXCI.— TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 January 24, 1833. 
 
 Dear Murray ! Moxon, I mean, — I am not 
 290 
 
to be making you pay postage every day, but 
 cannot let pass the congratulations of sister, 
 brother, and "Silk Cloak," all most cordial on 
 your change of place. Rogers approving, who 
 can demur ? Tell me when you get into Dover 
 St., and what the No. is — that I may change 
 foolscap for gilt, and plain Mr. for Esquire. I 
 shall Mister you while you stay. 
 
 If you are not too great to attend to it, I wish 
 us to do without the Sonnets of Sydney : twelve 
 will take up as many pages, and be too palpable 
 a fill up. Perhaps we may leave them out, re- 
 taining the article, but that is not worth saving. 
 I hope you liked my Cervantes article which I 
 sent you yesterday. 
 
 Not an inapt quotation, for your fallen prede- 
 cessor in Albemarle Street, to whom you must 
 give the coup du main, — 
 
 Murray, long enough his country's pride. — Pope. 
 
 DCXCIL — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 February n, 1833. 
 
 I wish you would omit "by the author of 
 Elia," now, in advertising that damn'd Devil's 
 Wedding. 
 
 I had sneaking hopes you would have dropt 
 in to-day ; 't is my poor birthday. Don't stay 
 away so. Give Forster a hint; you are to bring 
 your brother some day ; sisters in better weather. 
 
 Pray give me one line to say if you receiv'd 
 291 
 
and forwarded Emma's pacquet to Miss Adams, 
 and how Dover St. looks. Adieu. 
 
 Is there no Blackwood this month ? 
 
 \Added on cover :] 
 
 What separation will there be between the 
 friend's preface, and the Essays ? Should not Last 
 Essays, &c, head them ? If 't is too late, don't 
 mind. I don't care a farthing about it. 
 
 DCXCIII. — TO LOUISA BADAMS 
 
 February 15, 1833. 
 
 Dear Mrs. B., — Thanks for your remem- 
 brance of your old fellow-prisoners at murderous 
 Enfield. By the way, Cooper, who turned King's 
 evidence, is come back again whitewash'd, has 
 resumed his seat at chapel, and took his sister 
 (a fact) up the Holt White's lane to shew her 
 the topography of the deed. I intend asking him 
 to supper. They say he is pleasant in conversa- 
 tion. Will you come and meet him ? 
 
 I don't know how we shall see you. Mary has 
 objections to travelling, and I never stay out the 
 night when I come up. Could n't Badams and 
 you make a twenty -four hours' day here? The 
 room is vacant at the Horseshoe where Fare slept 
 last, unless you prefer Johnson's last bed. 
 
 Mary, Emma, and I have got thro' the Inferno 
 with the help of Cary ; and Mary is in for it. She 
 is commencing Tasso. When the spring is riper, 
 
 292 
 
we will spare Emma for a few days, if you '11 be 
 kind to her. 
 
 Triple loves and kind memory to you both. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 DCXCIV.— TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 February, 1833. 
 
 My dear M., — I send you the last proof — 
 not of my friendship — pray see to the finish. 
 
 I think you will see the necessity of adding 
 those words after " Preface " — and " Preface " 
 should be in the " contents-table." 
 
 I take for granted you approve the title. I do 
 thoroughly. 
 
 Perhaps if you advertise it in full, as it now 
 stands, the title-page might have simply the Last 
 Essays ofE/ia, to keep out any notion of its being 
 a second volume. 
 
 Well, I wish us luck heartily for your sake 
 who have smarted by me. 
 
 DCXCV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 Dear M., — Emma has teized me to take her 
 into the gallery of an opera on Tuesday, and I 
 have written for orders. We came up this morn- 
 ing. Can you house and bed us after the opera ? 
 Miss M., maybe, won't object to sharing half her 
 bed. And for me, I can sleep on straw, rushes, 
 thorns, Procrustes' couch ! or anywhere. Do not 
 
 293 
 
write if you can take us in. Write only if you 
 can't. Ch. Lamb 
 
 DCXCVL — TO T. N. TALFOURD 
 
 February, 1833. 
 
 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 ChittyMng (let the leathern apron be apo- 
 cryphal), do more 'specially plead to the Jury 
 Court of old memory. The costume (will he 
 agnize it ?) was as of a desk-fellow or Socius Plutei. 
 Methought I spied a brother ! 
 
 That familiarity is extinct for ever. Curse me 
 if I can call him Mr. Serjeant — except, mark 
 me, in company. Honour where honour is due; 
 but should he ever visit us (do you think he 
 ever will, Mary?), what a distinction should I 
 keep up between him and our less fortunate 
 friend, H[enry] C[rabb] Rfobinson] ! Decent 
 respect shall always be the Crabb's — but, some- 
 how, short of reverence. 
 
 Well, of my old friends, I have lived to see 
 two knighted: one made a judge, another in 
 a fair way to it. Why ami restive ? why stands 
 my sun upon Gibeah? 
 
 Variously, my dear Mrs. Talfourd (I can be 
 more familiar with her !), Mrs. Serjeant Talfourd, 
 — my sister prompts me — (these ladies stand 
 upon ceremonies) — has the congratulable news 
 
 294 
 
affected the members of our small community. 
 Mary comprehended it at once, and entered into 
 it heartily. Mrs. W[estwoodJ was, as usual, per- 
 verse — wouldn't, or couldn't, understand it. 
 A Serjeant ? She thought Mr. T. was in the law. 
 Did n't know that he ever 'listed. 
 
 Emma alone truly sympathised. She had a 
 silk gown come home that very day, and has 
 precedence before her learned sisters accord- 
 ingly. 
 
 We are going to drink the health of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Serjeant, with all the young serjeantry — 
 and that is all that I can see that I shall get by 
 the promotion. 
 
 Valete, et mementote amici quondam vestri humil- 
 limi. C. L. 
 
 DCXCVII.— TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 1833. 
 
 Dear M., — Let us see you and your brother 
 on Sunday. 
 
 The Elias are beautifully got up. Be cautious 
 how you name the probability of bringing 'em 
 ever out complete — till these are gone off. 
 Everybody 'd say "O I '11 wait then." 
 
 An't we to have a copy of the Sonnets ? 
 
 Mind, I shall insist upon having no more 
 copies : only I shall take three or four more of 
 you at trade price. I am resolute about this. 
 
 Yours ever 
 
 295 
 
DCXCVIII. — TO CHARLES W. DILKE 
 
 February, 1833. 
 CHRISTIAN NAMES OF WOMEN 
 
 TO EDITH s[0UTHEYJ 
 
 In Christian world Mary the garland wears ! 
 Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew's ear; 
 Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear; 
 And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears. 
 Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines ! 
 What air of fragrance Rosamund throws round ! 
 How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound ! 
 Of Marthas, and of Abigails, few lines 
 Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff 
 Should homely Joan be fashioned. But can 
 You Barbara resist, or Marian ? 
 And is not Clare for love excuse enough ? 
 Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, 
 These all, than Saxon Edith, please me less. 
 
 Many thanks for the life you have given us : 
 I am perfectly satisfied. But if you advert to it 
 
 again, I give you a delicate hint. Barbara S 
 
 shadows under that name Miss Kelly's early life, 
 and I had the anecdote beautifully from her. 
 
 DCXCIX. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 Early 1833. 
 
 No writing, and no word, ever passed between 
 Taylor, or Hessey, and me, respecting copyright. 
 This I can swear. They made a volume at their 
 own will, and volunteer'd me a third of profits, 
 
 296 
 
which came to ^30, which came to Bilk, and 
 never came back to me. Proctor has acted a 
 friendly part — when did he otherwise ? I am 
 
 very sorry to hear Mrs. P as I suppose, is 
 
 not so well. I meditated a rallying epistle to him 
 on his Gemini — his two Sosias, accusing him 
 of having acted a notable piece of duplicity. But 
 if his partner in the double dealing suffers, it 
 would be unseasonable. You cannot remember 
 me to him too kindly. Your chearful letter has 
 relieved us from the dumps; all may be well. I 
 rejoice at your letting your house so magnifi- 
 cently. Talfourd's letter may be directed to him 
 " On the Western Circuit." (Is it the Western ? 
 he goes to Reading, &c.) That is the way, send 
 it. With Blackwood pray send Piozziana and a 
 Literary Gazette if you have one. The Piozzi and 
 that shall be immediately return'd, and I keep 
 Madame Darblay for you eventually, a long- 
 winded reader at present having use of it. 
 
 The weather is so queer that I will not say I 
 expect you, &c, but am prepared for the pleasure 
 of seeing you when you can come. 
 
 We had given you up (the postman being 
 late) and Emma and I have twenty times this 
 morning been to the door in the rain to spy for 
 him coming. 
 
 Well, I know it is not all settled, but your 
 letter is chearful and cheer-making. 
 
 We join in triple love to you. 
 
 Elia & Co. 
 297 
 
I am settled in any case to take at bookseller's 
 price any copies I have more. Therefore oblige 
 me by sending a copy of Elia to Coleridge and 
 B. Barton, and enquire (at your leisure of course) 
 how I can send one, with a letter, to Walter 
 Savage Landor. These three put in your next 
 bill on me. I am peremptory that it shall be so. 
 These are all I can want. 
 
 DCC — TO B. W. PROCTER 
 
 Enfield, Monday. 
 
 Dear P , I have more than ^30 in my 
 
 house, and am independent of quarter-day, not 
 having received my pension. 
 
 Pray settle, I beg of you, the matter with 
 Mr. Taylor. I know nothing of bills, but most 
 gladly will I forward to you that sum for him, 
 for Mary is very anxious that M[oxon] may not 
 get into any litigation. The money is literally 
 rotting in my desk for want of use. I should 
 
 not interfere with M , tell M when 
 
 you see him, but Mary is really uneasy ; so lay 
 it to that account, not mine. 
 
 Yours ever and two evers, C. L. 
 
 Do it smack at once, and I will explain to 
 
 M why I did it. It is simply done to ease 
 
 her mind. When you have settled, write, and 
 I '11 send the bank-notes to you twice, in halves. 
 
 Deduct from it your share in broken bottles, 
 298 
 
which, you being capital in your lists, I take to 
 be two shillings. Do it as you love Mary and 
 me. Then Elia 's himself again. 
 
 DCCI. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 March 6, 1833. 
 
 Dear Friend, — Thee hast sent a Christian 
 epistle to me, and I should not feel clear if I 
 neglected to reply to it, which would have been 
 sooner if that vain young man, to whom thou 
 didst intrust it, had not kept it back. We should 
 rejoice to see thy outward man here, especially 
 on a day which should not be a first day, being 
 liable to worldly callers in on that day. Our 
 little book is delayed by a heathenish injunction, 
 threatened by the man Taylor. Canst thou copy 
 and send, or bring with thee, a vanity in verse 
 which in my younger days I wrote on friend 
 Aders' pictures ? Thou wilt find it in the book 
 called the Table Book. 
 
 Tryphena and Tryphosa, whom the world 
 calleth Mary and Emma, greet you with me. 
 
 Ch. Lamb 
 
 6th of 3d month, 4th day. 
 
 DCCII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 March 19, 1833. 
 
 I shall expect Forster and two Moxons on 
 Sunday, and hope for Procter. 
 
 299 
 
I am obliged to be in town next Monday. 
 Could we contrive to make a party (paying or 
 not is immaterial) for Miss Kelly's that night, 
 and can you shelter us after the play, I mean 
 Emma and me ? I fear, I cannot persuade Mary 
 to join us. 
 
 N. B. I can sleep at a public house. Send an 
 Elia (mind I insist on buying it) to T. Manning, 
 Esq., at Sir G. Tuthill's, Cavendish Square. Do 
 write. 
 
 DCCIII. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 March 30, 1833. 
 
 Dear M., — Emma and we are delighted with 
 the Sonnets, and she with her nice Walton. Mary 
 is deep in the novel. Come as early as you can. 
 I stupidly overlook'd your proposal to meet you 
 in Green Lanes, for in some strange way I burnt 
 my leg, shin-quarter, at Forster's ; * it is laid up on 
 a stool, and Asbury attends. You '11 see us all as 
 usual, about Taylor, when you come. 
 
 Yours ever, C. L. 
 
 * Or the night I came home, for I felt it not 
 bad till yesterday. But I scarce can hobble across 
 the room. I have secured four places for night : 
 in haste. Mary and E. do not dream of anything 
 we have discussed. 
 
 300 
 
DCCIV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 Spring, 1833. 
 
 Dear M., — Many thanks for the books; the 
 Faust I will acknowledge to the author. But 
 most thanks for one immortal sentence, " If I do 
 not cheat him, never trust me again." I do not 
 know whether to admire most, the wit or justness 
 of the sentiment. It has my cordial approbation. 
 My sense of meum and tuum applauds it. I main- 
 tain it, the eighth commandment hath a secret 
 special reservation, by which the reptile is ex- 
 empt from any protection from it; as a dog, or 
 a nigger, he is not a holder of property. Not 
 a ninth of what he detains from the world is 
 his own. "Keep your hands from picking and 
 stealing" is no ways referable to his acquists. 
 I doubt whether bearing false witness against thy 
 neighbour at all contemplated this possible scrub. 
 Could Moses have seen the speck in vision ? An 
 ex post facto law alone could relieve him, and we 
 are taught to expect no eleventh commandment. 
 The outlaw to the Mosaic dispensation! — un- 
 worthy to have seen Moses' behind — to lay his 
 desecrating hands upon Elia ! Has the irriverent 
 ark-toucher been struck blind I wonder? The 
 more I think of him, the less I think of him. 
 His meanness is invisible with aid of solar micro- 
 scope; my moral eye smarts at him. The less 
 flea that bites little fleas! The great beast! the 
 beggarly nit! 
 
 301 
 
More when we meet ; mind, you '11 come, two 
 of you — and could n't you go off in the morning, 
 that we may have a day-long curse at him, if 
 curses are not dis-hallowed by descending so low ? 
 Amen. Maledicatur in extremis. 
 
 DCCV. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 Swallow your damn'd dinner and your brandy 
 and water fast, and come immediately. I want 
 to take Knowles in to Emma's only female friend 
 for five minutes only, and we are free for the 
 evening. I '11 do a Prologue. 
 
 DCCVI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 Last line alter to, — 
 
 A store of gratitude is left behind. 
 
 Because, as it now stands, if the author lays his 
 hand upon his heart, and emfattically says, — 
 
 I have (so and so) behind, 
 
 the audience may think it is all my**** in a 
 bandbox, and so in fact it is. Yours, by old and 
 new ties, C. Lamb 
 
 Condemn them, damn them, hiss them as you will, 
 Their author is your grateful servant still. 
 
 I want to see fouster (not the German foust) 
 and you, boy. 
 
 302 
 
Mind, I don't care the ioo,oooth part of a 
 bad sixpence if Knowles gets a Prologue more 
 to his mind. 
 
 DCCVII.— TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 [No date. ? April 10, 1833.] 
 
 Dear M., — The first Oak sonnet and the 
 Nightingale, may show their faces in any An- 
 nual unblushing. Some of the others are very 
 good. 
 
 The Sabbath too much what you have written 
 before. 
 
 You are destined to shine in sonnets, I tell 
 you. 
 
 Shall we look for you Sunday, we did in vain 
 Good Friday [April 5]. 
 
 DCCVIII. — TO CHARLES W. DILKE 
 
 April, 1833. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I read your note in a moment of 
 great perturbation with my landlady and chuck'd 
 it in the fire, as I should have done an epistle of 
 Paul, but as far as my sister recalls the import 
 of it, I reply. The sonnets (36 of them) have 
 never been printed, much less published, till the 
 other day (the proof-sheets only were in my hand 
 about a fortnight ago), save that a few of 'em 
 have come out in Annuals. Two vols., of poetry 
 of M.'s, have been publish'd, but they were not 
 
 3°3 
 
these. The Nightingale has been in one of those 
 gewgaws, the Annuals; whether the other I sent 
 you has, or not, penitus ignoro. But for heaven's 
 sake do with 'em what you like. 
 
 Yours, C. L. 
 
 DCCIX. — TO MRS. WILLIAM AYRTON 
 
 April (16), 1833. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Ayrton, — I do not know which to 
 admire most, your kindness or your patience, in 
 copying out that intolerable rabble of panegryc 
 from over the Atlantic. By the way, now your 
 hand is in, I wish you would copy out for me the 
 1 3th, 1 7th, and 24th of Barrow's sermons in folio, 
 and all of Tillotson's (folio also) except the first, 
 which I have in manuscript, and which, you 
 know, is Ayrton's favourite. Then — but I won't 
 trouble you any farther just now. Why does not 
 A. come and see me ? Can't he and Henry Crabbe 
 concert it ? 'T is as easy as lying is to me. Mary's 
 kindest love to you both. Elia 
 
 DCCX. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 [April 25, 1833.] 
 
 My dear Moxon, — We perfectly agree in your 
 arrangement. // has quite set my sister s mind at 
 rest. She will come with you on Sunday, and re- 
 turn at eve, and I will make comfortable arrange- 
 ments with the Buffams. We desire to have you 
 
 3°4 
 
here dining unWestwooded, and I will try and 
 get you a bottle of choice port. I have trans- 
 ferr'd the stock I told you to Emma. The plan 
 of the Buffams steers admirably between two 
 niceties. Tell Emma we thoroughly approve it. 
 As our damn'd Times is a day after the fair, I am 
 setting off to Enfield Highway to see in a morn- 
 ing paper (alas ! the Publican's) how the play 
 ran. Pray, bring four orders for Mr. Asbury — 
 undated. In haste (not for neglect), 
 
 Yours ever, C. Lamb 
 
 DCCXI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 [April 27, 1833.] 
 
 Dear M., — Mary and I are very poorly. As- 
 bury says 'tis nothing but influenza. Mr. W. 
 appears all but dying : he is delirious. Mrs. W. 
 was taken so last night that Mary was obliged at 
 midnight to knock up Mrs. Waller to come and 
 sit up with her. We have had a sick child, who 
 sleeping or not sleeping, next me with a paste- 
 board partition between, killed my sleep. The 
 little bastard is gone. My bedfellows are Cough 
 and Cramp, we sleep three in a bed. Domestic 
 arrangements (Blue Butcher and all) devolve on 
 Mary. Don't come yet to this house of pest and 
 age. We propose when E. and you agree on the 
 time, to come up and meet her at the Buffams', 
 say a week hence, but do you make the appoint- 
 ment. The Lachlans send her their love. 
 
 3°S 
 
I do sadly want those two last Hogarths ; and 
 an't I to have the Play ? 
 
 Mind our spirits are good and we are happy 
 in your happinesses. C. L. 
 
 Our old and ever loves to dear Em. 
 
 DCCXII. — TO REV. JAMES GILLMAN 
 
 Ma y 7. l8 33- 
 By a strange occurrence we have quitted En- 
 field for ever. Oh ! the happy eternity ! Who is 
 Vicar or Lecturer for that detestable place con- 
 cerns us not. But Asbury, surgeon and a good fel- 
 low, has offered to get you a Mover and Seconder, 
 and you may use my name freely to him. Except 
 him and Dr. Creswell, I have no respectable 
 acquaintance in the dreary village. At least my 
 friends are all in the public line, and it might 
 not suit to have it moved at a special vestry by 
 John Gage at the Crown and Horseshoe, licensed 
 victualler, and seconded by Joseph Horner of 
 the Green Dragon, ditto, that the Rev. J. G. is 
 a fit person to be Lecturer, &c. 
 
 My dear James, I wish you all success, but 
 am too full of my own emancipation almost to 
 congratulate any one else. 
 
 With both our loves to your father and mo- 
 ther and glorious S. T. C, 
 
 Yours, C. Lamb 
 
 306 
 
DCCXIII. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 Edmonton, May, 1833. 
 
 Dear F., — Can you oblige me by sending four 
 box orders undated for the Olympic Theatre ? 
 I suppose Knowles can get 'em. It is for the 
 Waldens, with whom I live. The sooner the 
 better, that they may not miss the Wife — I meet 
 you at the Talfourds' Saturday week, and if they 
 can't, perhaps you can, give me a bed. 
 
 Yours, ratherish unwell, C. Lamb 
 
 Or write immediately to say if you can't get 
 'em. 
 
 DCCXIV. — TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 [May 12, 1833.] 
 
 Dear Boy, — I send you the original E/ias, 
 complete. 
 
 When I am a little composed, I shall hope to 
 see you and Proctor here ; maybe, may see you 
 first in London. C. L. 
 
 DCCXV.— TO MISS RICKMAN 
 
 May 23, 1833. 
 
 Dear Miss Rickman, — My being a day in 
 town, and my being moved from Enfield, made 
 your letter late, and my reply in consequence. 
 I am glad you like Elia. Perhaps, as Miss Kelly 
 
 3°7 
 
is just now in notoriety, it may amuse you to 
 know that " Barbara S." is all of it true of ber, 
 being all communicated to me from her own 
 mouth. The " wedding " of course you found 
 out to be Sally Burney's. As to Mrs. G., I know 
 no reason why your dear mother should not call 
 upon her. I remember Rickman and she did not 
 return Mr. and Mrs. G.'s congratulatory visit on 
 their wedding. No fresh reason has occurred 
 since to prevent any civilities on their side. By 
 a sudden illness of my sister (they now last half 
 the year, in violence first, and a succeeding dread- 
 ful depression) I have come to the resolution of 
 living with her under it at a place where she is 
 under regular treatment, and am at Mr. Walden's, 
 Church Street, Edmonton. In a few weeks, I 
 should like one quiet day among you, but not 
 before. With loves to father and mother, and 
 your kind-hearted sister, whose Christian name 
 I am an heathen if I just now can remember, 
 Yours sincerely, C. Lamb 
 
 Mrs. Godwin is a second wife. Mary Wol- 
 stoncroft has been dead thirty years ! 
 
 DCCXVL — TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 End of May nearly [1833]. 
 
 Dear Wordsworth, — Your letter, save in what 
 respects your dear sister's health, chear'd me in 
 my new solitude. Mary is ill again. Her illnesses 
 
 308 
 
encroach yearly. The last was three months, fol- 
 lowed by two of depression most dreadful. I look 
 back upon her earlier attacks with longing. Nice 
 little durations of six weeks or so, followed by 
 complete restoration — shocking as they were to 
 me then. In short, half her life she is dead to me, 
 and the other half is made anxious with fears 
 and lookings forward to the next shock. With 
 such prospects, it seem'd to me necessary that 
 she should no longer live with me, and be flut- 
 tered with continual removals, so I am come to 
 live with her, at a Mr. Walden's and his wife's, 
 who take in patients, and have arranged to lodge 
 and board us only. They have had the care of 
 her before. I see little of her ; alas ! I too often 
 hear her. Sunt lachrymae rerum — and you and 
 I must bear it — 
 
 To lay a little more load on it, a circumstance 
 has happen' d, cujus pars magna fui, and which 
 at another crisis I should have more rejoiced in. 
 I am about to lose my old and only walk-com- 
 panion, whose mirthful spirits were the "youth 
 of our house," Emma Isola. I have her here 
 now for a little while, but she is too nervous 
 properly to be under such a roof, so she will 
 make short visits, be no more an inmate. With 
 my perfect approval, and more than concurrence, 
 she is to be wedded to Moxon at the end of 
 August. So "perish the roses and the flowers" 
 — how is it? 
 
 Now to the brighter side, I am emancipated 
 
 3°9 
 
from most hated and detestable people, the West- 
 woods. I am with attentive people, and younger. 
 I am three or four miles nearer the Great City, 
 coaches half-price less, and going always, of which 
 I will avail myself. I have few friends left there, 
 one or two, tho', most beloved. But London 
 streets and faces cheer me inexpressibly, tho' of 
 the latter not one known one were remaining. 
 
 Thank you for your cordial reception of Elia. 
 Inter nos the Ariadne is not a darling with me, 
 several incongruous things are in it, but in the 
 composition it served me as illustrative. 
 
 I want you in the popular fallacies to like the 
 " Home that is no home" and " rising with the 
 lark." 
 
 I am feeble, but chearful in this my genial 
 hot weather, — walk'd sixteen miles yesterday. 
 I can't read much in summer time. 
 
 With very kindest love to all, and prayers for 
 dear Dorothy, I remain most attachedly yours, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 at mr. walden's, church street, edmonton, mid- 
 dlesex. 
 
 Moxon has introduced Emma to Rogers, and 
 he smiles upon the project. I have given E. 
 my Milton — will you pardon me ? — in part of 
 a portion. It hangs famously in his Murray-like 
 shop. 
 
 \On the wrapper is written :] 
 
 Dr. M[oxon], inclose this in a better-looking 
 310 
 
paper, and get it frank' d, and good b'ye till Sun- 
 day. Come early — C. L. 
 
 DCCXVIL— TO SARAH HAZLITT 
 
 Mr. Walden's, Church Street, Edmonton, 
 May 31, 1833. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Hazlitt, — I will assuredly come, 
 and find you out, when I am better. I am driven 
 from house and home by Mary's illness. I took 
 a sudden resolution to take my sister to Edmon- 
 ton, where she was under medical treatment last 
 time, and have arranged to board and lodge with 
 the people. Thank God, I have repudiated En- 
 field. I have got out of hell, despair of heaven, 
 and must sit down contented in a half-way purga- 
 tory. Thus ends this strange eventful history. 
 But I am nearer town, and will get up to you 
 somehow before long. I repent not of my reso- 
 lution. 'T is late, and my hand unsteady, so good 
 b'ye till we meet. Your old C. L. 
 
 DCCXVIIL — TO MATILDA BETH AM 
 
 June, 1833. 
 
 Dear Miss Betham, — I sit down, very poorly, 
 to write to you, being come to Mr. Walden's, 
 Church Street, Edmonton,to be altogether with poor 
 Mary, who is very ill, as usual, only that her ill- 
 nesses are now as many months as they used to 
 be weeks in duration ; the reason your letter only 
 
 3 11 
 
just found me. I am saddened with the havoc 
 death has made in your family. I do not know 
 how to appreciate the kind regard of dear Anne ; 
 Mary will understand it two months hence, I 
 hope ; but neither she nor I would rob you, if 
 the legacy will be of use to, or comfort to you. 
 My hand shakes so I can hardly write. On 
 Saturday week I must come to town, and will 
 call on you in the morning before one o'clock. 
 Till when I take kindest leave. 
 
 Your old Friend, C. Lamb 
 
 DCCXIX. — TO MISS MARY BETHAM 
 
 [June 5, 1833.] 
 
 Dear Mary Betham, — I remember you all, 
 and tears come out when I think on the years 
 that have separated us. That dear Anne should 
 so long have remember'd us affects me. My dear 
 Mary, my poor sister, is not, nor will be for two 
 months perhaps, capable of appreciating the kind 
 old long memory of dear Anne \who had just died, 
 leaving j[jo to Mary Lamb]. 
 
 But not a penny will I take, and I can answer 
 for my Mary when she recovers, if the sum left 
 can contribute in any way to the comfort of 
 Matilda. 
 
 We will halve it, or we will take a bit of it, 
 as a token, rather than wrong her. So pray 
 consider it as an amicable arrangement. I write 
 in great haste, or you won't get it before you go. 
 
 312 
 
We do not want the money ; but if dear Matilda 
 does not much want it, why, we will take our 
 thirds. God bless you. C. Lamb 
 
 I am not at Enfield, but at Mr. Walden's, 
 Church Street, Edmonton, Middlesex. 
 
 DCCXX. — TO MRS. NORRIS 
 
 [Postmarked] July 10, 1833. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Norris, — I wrote to Jekyll, and 
 sent him an Elia. This is his kind answer. So you 
 see that he will be glad to see any of you that 
 shall be in town, and will arrange, if you prefer 
 it, to accompany you. If you are at Brighton, 
 Betsey will forward this. I have cut off the 
 name at the bottom to give to a foolish autograph 
 fancier. Love to you all. Emma sends her very 
 kindest. C. Lamb 
 
 DCCXXI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 [July 14, 1833.] 
 
 Dear M., — The Hogarths are delicate. Per- 
 haps it will amuse Emma to tell her that, a day 
 or two since, Miss Norris (Betsy) call'd to me on 
 the road from London from a gig conveying her 
 to Widford, and engaged me to come down this 
 afternoon. I think I shall stay only one night ; 
 she would have been glad of E.'s accompani- 
 ment, but I would not disturb her, and Mrs. N. 
 
 SIS 
 
is coming to town on Monday, so it would not 
 have suited. Also, C. V.Le Grice gave me a din- 
 ner at Johnny Gilpin's yesterday, where we talk'd 
 of what old friends were taken or left in the 
 thirty years since we had met. 
 
 I shall hope to see her on Tuesday. 
 
 To Bless you both, C. L. 
 
 DCCXXII. — TO MRS. NORRIS 
 
 Edmonton [July 18, 1833]. 
 
 Dear Mrs. N orris, — I got home safe. Pray 
 accept these little books, and some of you give 
 me a line to say you received them. Love to all, 
 and thanks for three agreeable days. I send them 
 this afternoon (Tuesday) by Canter's coach. Are 
 the little girls packed safe ? They can come in 
 straw, and have eggs under them. Ask them to 
 lie soft, 'cause eggs smash. Elia 
 
 DCCXXIII. — TO THOMAS ALLSOP 
 
 My dear Allsop, — I think it will be impos- 
 sible for us to come to Highgate in the time you 
 propose. We have friends coming to-morrow, 
 who may stay the week ; and we are in a bustle 
 about Emma's leaving us — so we will put off 
 the hope of seeing Mrs. Allsop till we come to 
 town, after Emma's going, which is in a fort- 
 night and a half, when we mean to spend a time 
 
 3H 
 
in town, but shall be happy to see you on Sun- 
 day, or any day. 
 
 In haste. Hope our little Porter does. 
 
 Yours ever, C. L. 
 
 DCCXXIV. — TO MR. TUFF 
 
 [Edmonton, 1833.] 
 
 Dear Sir, — I learn that Covent Garden, from 
 its thin houses every night, is likely to be shut 
 up after Saturday ; so that no time is to be lost 
 in using the orders. Yours, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 DCCXXV. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 July 24, 1833. 
 
 For God's sake, give Emma no more watches. 
 One has turn'd her head. She is arrogant and 
 insulting. She said something very unpleasant to 
 our old Clock in the passage, as if he did not keep 
 time, and yet he had made her no appointment. 
 She takes it out every instant to look at the 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 a Clock," and she answers them 
 punctually. She loses all her time looking " what 
 the time is." I overheard her whispering, "Just 
 so many hours, minutes, &c, to Tuesday — I 
 think St. George's goes too slow " — This little 
 present of Time, why, 't is Eternity to her — 
 
 3*5 
 
What can make her so fond of a gingerbread 
 watch ? 
 
 She has spoil'd some of the movements. Be- 
 tween ourselves, she has kissed away " half-past 
 1 2," which I suppose to be the canonical hour in 
 Hanover Sq. 
 
 Well, if " love me, love my watch " answers, 
 she will keep time to you — It goes right by the 
 Horse Guards — 
 
 [On the next page:} Emma has kist this yel- 
 low wafer — a hint. 
 
 Dearest M., — Never mind opposite nonsense. 
 She does not love you for the watch, but the 
 watch for you. 
 
 I will be at the wedding, and keep the 30th 
 July, as long as my poor months last me, as a fes- 
 tival gloriously. Yours ever, Elia 
 
 We have not heard from Cambridge. I will 
 write the moment we do. 
 
 Edmonton, 24th July, 3.20 post mer. minutes 
 4 instants by Emma's watch. 
 
 DCCXXVI. — CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 
 TO EDWARD AND EMMA MOXON 
 
 July 3 1 * l8 33- 
 
 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. 
 
 316 
 
" I am full of good wishes ; I am crying with good 
 wishes," she says ; but you shall see it. 
 
 Dear Moxon, — I take your writing most 
 kindly and shall most kindly your writing from 
 Paris. 
 
 I want to crowd another letter to Miss Fry 
 into the little time after dinner before Post time. 
 
 So with 20000 congratulations, 
 
 Yours, C. L. 
 
 I am calm, sober, happy. Turn over for the 
 reason. 
 
 I got home from Dover Street, by Evens, half 
 as sober as a judge. I am turning over a new leaf, 
 as I hope you will now. 
 
 \On the next leaf Mary Lamb wrote:] 
 My dear Emma and Edward Moxon, — Ac- 
 cept my sincere congratulations, and imagine 
 more good wishes than my weak nerves will let 
 me put into good set words. The dreary blank 
 of unanswered questions which I ventured to ask 
 in vain was cleared up on the wedding-day by 
 Mrs. W. taking a glass of wine, and, with a total 
 change of countenance, begged leave to drink 
 Mr. and Mrs. Moxon's health. It restored me, 
 from that moment, as if by an electrical stroke, to 
 the entire possession of my senses : I never felt so 
 calm and quiet after a similar illness as I do now. 
 I feel as if all tears were wiped from my eyes, and 
 all care from my heart. Mary Lamb 
 
 3*7 
 
[At the foot of this letter Charles Lamb added i\ 
 Dears Again, — Your letter interrupted a 
 
 seventh game at picquet which we were having, 
 
 after walking to Wright's and purchasing shoes. 
 
 We pass our time in cards, walks, and reading. 
 
 We attack Tasso soon. C. L. 
 
 Never was such a calm or such a recovery. 
 T is her own words, undictated. 
 
 DCCXXVII. — TO LOUISA BADAMS 
 
 August 20, 1833. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Badams, — I was at church as the 
 grave Father, and behaved tolerably well, except 
 at first entrance when Emma in a whisper re- 
 pressed a nascent giggle. I am not fit for wed- 
 dings or burials. Both incite a chuckle. Emma 
 looked as pretty as Pamela, and made her re- 
 sponses delicately and firmly. I tripped a little 
 at the altar, was engaged in admiring the altar- 
 piece, but, recalled seasonably by a Parsonic 
 rebuke, "Who gives this woman?" was in time 
 resolutely to reply " I do." Upon the whole the 
 thing went offdecently and devoutly. Your dodg- 
 ing post is excellent ; I take it, it was at Wilsdon. 
 We shall this week or next dine at Islington. I 
 am writing to know the day, and in that case see 
 you the next day and talk of beds. My lodging 
 may be on the cold floor. I long for a hard fought 
 game with Badams. 
 
 318 
 
With haste and thanks for your unusually en- 
 tertaining letter, yours truly, 
 
 Charles and Mary Lamb 
 
 I will write to Miss Jas. soon — was meditat- 
 ing it. 
 
 DCCXXVIII. — TO MISS M. BETH AM 
 
 August 23, 1833. 
 
 Dear Miss B., — Your bridal verses are very 
 beautiful. Emma shall have them, as here cor- 
 rected, when they return. They are in France. 
 The verses, I repeat, are sweetly pretty. I know 
 nobody in these parts that wants a servant; in- 
 deed, I have no acquaintance in this new place, 
 and rarely come to town. 
 
 The rule of Christ's Hospital is rigorous, that 
 the marriage certificate of the parents be pro- 
 duced, previous to the presentation of a boy, so 
 that your renowned protege has no chance. 
 
 Never trouble yourself about Dyer's neigh- 
 bour. He will only tell you a parcel of fibs, and 
 is impracticable to any advice. He has been 
 long married and parted, and has to pay his wife 
 a weekly allowance to this day, besides other in- 
 cumbrances. 
 
 In haste and headake, yours, 
 
 ^Signature lostl\ 
 
 3 IQ 
 
DCCXXIX. — TO H. F. CARY 
 
 September 9, 1833. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Your packet I have only just re- 
 ceived, owing, I suppose, to the absence of 
 Moxon, who is flaunting it about a la Parisienne 
 with his new bride, our Emma, much to his 
 satisfaction and not a little to our dulness. We 
 shall be quite well by the time you return from 
 Worcestershire, and most most (observe the repe- 
 tition) glad to see you here or anywhere. 
 
 I will take my time with Darley's act. I wish 
 poets would write a little plainer; he begins some 
 of his words with a letter which is unknown to 
 the English typography. Yours, most truly, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 P. S. Pray let me know when you return. 
 We are at Mr. Walden's, Church Street, Ed- 
 monton; no longer at Enfield. You will be 
 amused to hear that my sister and I have, with 
 the aid of Emma, scrambled through the Inferno 
 by the blessed furtherance of your polar-star trans- 
 lation. I think we scarce left anything unmade- 
 out. But our partner has left us, and we have 
 not yet resumed. Mary's chief pride in it was 
 that she should some day brag of it to you. 
 Your Dante and Sandys' Ovid are the only help- 
 mates of translations. Neither of you shirk a 
 word. 
 
 Fairfax's Tasso is no translation at all. It 's 
 320 
 
better in some places ; but it merely observes the 
 number of stanzas; as for images, similes, &c, 
 he finds 'em himself, and never " troubles Peter 
 for the matter." 
 
 In haste, dear Cary, yours ever, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 Has Moxon sent you Elia, second volume ? if 
 not, he shall. Taylor and we are at law about it. 
 
 DCCXXX.— TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 September 26, 1833. 
 
 We shall be most happy to see Emma, dear to 
 everybody. Mary's spirits are much better, and 
 she longs to see again our twelve years' friend. 
 You shall afternoon sip with me a bottle of 
 superexcellent Port, after deducting a dinner- 
 glass for them. We rejoyce to have E. come, the 
 
 first visit, without Miss , who, I trust, will 
 
 yet behave well ; but she might perplex Mary 
 with questions. 
 
 Pindar sadly wants Preface and notes. Pray, 
 E., get to Snow Hill before twelve, for we dine 
 before two. We will make it two. By mistake 
 I gave you Miss Betham's letter, with the ex- 
 quisite verses, which pray return to me, or if it 
 be an improved copy, give me the other, and 
 albumize mine, keeping the signature. It is too 
 pretty a family portrait, for you not to cherish. 
 
 Your loving friends, C. Lamb, M. Lamb 
 321 
 
NOTE 
 
 [The following poem was addressed to Moxon by Lamb, 
 and printed in The Atkenaum, December 7, 1833 : 
 
 TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE 
 
 What makes a happy wedlock ? What has fate 
 
 Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate ? 
 
 Good sense — good humour ; — these are trivial things, 
 
 Dear M , that each trite encomiast sings. 
 
 But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt 
 From every low-bred passion, where contempt, 
 Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found 
 A harbour yet ; an understanding sound ; 
 Just views of right and wrong ; perception full 
 Of the deformed, and of the beautiful, 
 In life and manners ; wit above her sex, 
 Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks ; 
 Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, 
 To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth ; 
 A noble nature, conqueror in the strife 
 Of conflict with a hard discouraging life, 
 Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power 
 Of those whose days have been one silken hour, 
 Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring ; a keen sense 
 Alike of benefit, and of offence, 
 With reconcilement quick, that instant springs 
 From the charged heart with nimble angel wings ; 
 While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd 
 By a strong hand, seem burnt into her mind. 
 If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer 
 Richer than land, thou hast them all in her ; 
 And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon, 
 Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.] 
 
 DCCXXXL — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 October 17, 1833. 
 
 Dear M., — Get me Shirley (there 's a dear 
 fellow) and send it soon. We sadly want books, 
 and this will be readable again and again, and 
 pay itself. Tell Emma I grieve for the poor self- 
 
 322 
 
punishing self-baffling lady ; with all our hearts 
 we grieve for the pain and vexation she has en- 
 counter' d ; but we do not swerve a pin's-thought 
 from the propriety of your measures. God com- 
 fort her, and there 's an end of a painful neces- 
 sity. But I am glad she goes to see her. Let her 
 keep up all the kindness she can between them. 
 In a week or two I hope Mary will be stout 
 enough to come among ye, but she is not now, 
 and I have scruples of coming alone, as she has 
 no pleasant friend to sit with her in my absence. 
 We are lonely. I fear the visits must be mostly 
 from you. By the way omnibuses are ij\ yi. 
 and coach insides sunk to is. 6d. — a hint. With- 
 out disturbance to yourselves, or upsetting the 
 economy of the dear new mistress of a family, 
 come and see us as often as ever you can. We 
 are so out of the world, that a letter from either 
 of you now and then, detailing anything, book 
 or town news, is as good as a newspaper. I have 
 desperate colds, cramps, megrims, &c, but do 
 not despond. My fingers are numb'd, as you see 
 by my writing. Tell E. I am very good also. But 
 we are poor devils ; that 's the truth of it. I 
 won't apply to Dilke — just now at least; I sin- 
 cerely hope the pastoral air of Dover St. will 
 recruit poor Harriet. With best loves to all. 
 Yours ever, C. L. 
 
 Ryle and Lowe dined here on Sunday; the 
 manners of the latter, so gentlemanly! have 
 
 3 2 3 
 
attracted the special admiration of our landlady. 
 She guest R. to be nearly of my age. He always 
 had an old head on young shoulders. I fear I 
 shall always have the opposite. Tell me anything 
 of Foster [Forster] or anybody. Write anything 
 you think will amuse me. I do dearly hope in 
 a week or two to surprise you with our appear- 
 ance in Dover St. 
 
 DCCXXXIL— TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 November 29, 1833. 
 
 Mary is of opinion with me that two of these 
 Sonnets are of a higher grade than any poetry 
 you have done yet. The one to Emma is so 
 pretty ! I have only allowed myself to transpose 
 a word in the third line. Sacred shall it be for 
 any intermeddling of mine. But we jointly beg 
 that you will make four lines in the room of the 
 four last. Read Darby and Joan, in Mrs. Moxon's 
 first album. There you '11 see how beautiful in 
 age the looking back to youthful years in an old 
 couple is. But it is a violence to the feelings to 
 anticipate that time in youth. I hope you and 
 Emma will have many a quarrel and many a 
 make-up (and she is beautiful in reconciliation !) 
 before the dark days shall come, in which ye 
 shall say " there is small comfort in them." You 
 have begun a sort of character of Emma in them 
 very sweetly; carry it on, if you can, through 
 the last lines. 
 
 3 2 4 
 
I love the sonnet to my heart, and you shall 
 finish it, and I '11 be damn'd if I furnish a line 
 towards it. So much for that. The next best is, 
 
 TO THE OCEAN 
 
 Ye gallant winds, if e'er your lusty cheeks 
 
 Blew longing lover to his mistress' side, 
 
 O, puff your loudest, spread the canvas wide, 
 
 is spirited. The last line I altered, and have re- 
 altered it as it stood. It is closer. These two 
 are your best. But take a good deal of time in 
 finishing the first. How proud should Emma be 
 of her poets ! 
 
 Perhaps "O Ocean" (though I like it) is too 
 much of the open vowels, which Pope objects 
 to. "Great Ocean!" is obvious. "To save sad 
 thoughts," I think is better (though not good) 
 than for the mind to save herself. But 't is a 
 noble sonnet. St. Cloud I have no fault to find 
 with. 
 
 If I return the Sonnets, think it no disrespect ; 
 for I look for a printed copy. You have done 
 better than ever. And now for a reason I did 
 not notice 'em earlier: on Wednesday they came, 
 and on Wednesday I was a-gadding. Mary gave 
 me a holiday, and I set off to Snow Hill. From 
 Snow Hill I deliberately was marching down, 
 with noble Holborn before me, framing in 
 mental cogitation a map of the dear London in 
 prospect, thinking to traverse Wardour Street, 
 &c, when diabolically I was interrupted by 
 
 3 2 5 
 
Heigh-ho! 
 
 Little Barrow! — 
 Emma knows him, — and prevailed on to spend 
 the day at his sister's, where was an album, and 
 (O march of intellect!) plenty of literary con- 
 versation, and more acquaintance with the state 
 of modern poetry than I could keep up with. 
 I was positively distanced. Knowles' play, which, 
 epilogued by me, lay on the piano, alone made me 
 hold up my head. When I came home I read your 
 letter, and glimpsed at your beautiful sonnet, — 
 
 Fair art thou as the morning, my young bride, 
 
 and dwelt upon it in a confused brain, but deter- 
 mined not to open them till next day, being in 
 a state not to be told of at Chatteris. Tell it not 
 in Gath, Emma, lest the daughters triumph ! I 
 am at the end of my tether. I wish you could 
 come on Tuesday with your fair bride. Why 
 can't you ? Do. We are thankful to your sister 
 for being of the party. Come, and bring a sonnet 
 on Mary's birthday. Love to the whole Mox- 
 onry, and tell E. I every day love her more, and 
 miss her less. Tell her so from her loving uncle, 
 as she has let me call myself. I bought a fine 
 embossed card yesterday, and wrote for the Pawn- 
 brokeress's album. She is a Miss Brown, engaged 
 to a Mr. White. One of the lines was (I forget 
 the rest — but she had them at twenty-four 
 hours' notice; she is going out to India with her 
 husband), — 
 
 326 
 
May your fame 
 And fortune, Frances, Whiten with your name ! 
 
 Not bad as a pun. I wil expect you before two 
 on Tuesday. I am well and happy, tell E. 
 
 DCCXXXIIL— TO MISS FRANCES BROWN 
 
 Edmonton, November, 1833. 
 
 Dear Frances, — Will you accept these poor 
 lines, and curl them into your album, clipping 
 the corners? They will cost you threepence, 
 which your Aunt Mary will pay you, and then 
 she will owe me ninepence, from the old shilling 
 she lost, as she says, in the sawpit. My sister joins 
 me in remembrances to you all. C. Lamb 
 
 I hope your sweetheart's name is White. 
 Else it will spoil all. May be 't is Black. Then 
 we must alter it. And may your fortunes blacken 
 with your name. 
 
 DCCXXXIV. — TO CHARLES W. DILKE 
 
 Middle December, 1833. 
 
 I hoped R. would like his sonnet, but I fear'd 
 S., that fine old man, might not quite like the turn 
 of it. This last was penn'd almost literally ex- 
 tempore. Your Laureat 
 
 Is S.'s Christian name Thomas? if not, cor- 
 rect it. 
 
 327 
 
NOTE 
 [« R." — Rogers ; " S." Stothard. See next letter.] 
 
 DCCXXXV. — TO SAMUEL ROGERS 
 
 December 21, 1833. 
 
 My dear Sir, — Your book, by the unremit- 
 ting punctuality of your publisher, has reached 
 me thus early. I have not opened it, nor will till 
 to-morrow, when I promise myself a thorough 
 reading of it. The Pleasures of Memory was the 
 first school present I made to Mrs. Moxon — it 
 had those nice wood-cuts; and I believe she 
 keeps it still. Believe me, that all the kindness 
 you have shown to the husband of that excellent 
 person seems done unto myself. I have tried 
 my hand at a sonnet in the Times. But the turn 
 I gave it, though I hoped it would not displease 
 you, I thought might not be equally agreeable 
 to your artist. I met that dear old man at poor 
 Henry's — with you — and again at Cary's — 
 and it was sublime to see him sit deaf and enjoy 
 all that was going on in mirth with the company. 
 He reposed upon the many graceful, many fan- 
 tastic images he had created; with them he 
 dined and took wine. 
 
 I have ventured at an antagonist copy of verses 
 in the Athenaum to him, in which he is as every- 
 thing and you as nothing. He is no lawyer who 
 cannot take two sides. But I am jealous of the 
 combination of the sister arts. Let them sparkle 
 
 328 
 
apart. What injury (short of the theatres) did 
 not Boydell's Shakespeare Gallery do me with 
 Shakespeare ? — to have Opie's Shakespeare, 
 Northcote's Shakespeare, light-headed Fuseli's 
 Shakespeare, heavy-headed Romney's Shake- 
 speare, wooden-headed West's Shakespeare 
 (though he did the best in Lear}, deaf-headed 
 Reynolds's Shakespeare, instead of my, and every- 
 body's Shakespeare. To be tied down to an 
 authentic face of Juliet! To have Imogen's por- 
 trait ! To confine the illimitable ! I like you 
 and Stothard (you best), but " out upon this half- 
 faced fellowship." Sir, when I have read the 
 book I may trouble you, through Moxon, with 
 some faint criticisms. It is not the flatteringest 
 compliment, in a letter to an author, to say you 
 have not read his book yet. But the devil of a 
 reader he must be who prances through it in five 
 minutes, and no longer have I received the parcel. 
 It was a little tantalizing to me to receive a letter 
 from Landor, Gebir Landor, from Florence, to 
 say he was just sitting down to read my Elia, 
 just received, but the letter was to go out before 
 the reading. There are calamities in authorship 
 which only authors know. I am going to call 
 on Moxon on Monday, if the throng of carriages 
 in Dover Street on the morn of publication do 
 not barricade me out. 
 
 With many thanks, and most respectful re- 
 membrances to your sister, yours, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 3 2 9 
 
Have you seen Coleridge's happy exemplifica- 
 tion in English of the Ovidian elegiac metre ? — 
 
 In the Hexameter rises the fountain's silvery current, 
 In the Pentameter aye falling in melody down. 
 
 My sister is papering up the book — careful 
 soul ! 
 
 DCCXXXVL — TO CHARLES W. DILKE 
 
 I have read the enclosed five and forty times 
 over. I have submitted it to my Edmonton 
 friends; at last (O Argus' penetration), I have 
 discovered a dash that might be dispensed with. 
 Pray don't trouble yourself with such useless cour- 
 tesies. I can well trust your editor, when I don't 
 use queer phrases which prove themselves wrong 
 by creating a distrust in the sober compositor. 
 
 DCCXXXVII. — TO CHARLES W. DILKE 
 
 Church Street, Edmonton. [No date.] 
 
 May I now claim of you the benefit of the 
 loan of some books ? Do not fear sending too 
 many. But do not if it be irksome to yourself, — 
 such as shall make you say, " Damn it, here 's 
 Lamb's box come again." Dog's-leaves ensured! 
 Any light stuff: no natural history or useful 
 learning, such as Pyramids, Catacombs, Giraffes, 
 Adventures in Southern Africa, Sec, &c. 
 
 With our joint compliments, yours, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 33° 
 
Novels for the last two years, or further back — 
 nonsense of any period. 
 
 DCCXXXVIIL — TO CHARLES W. DILKE 
 
 [No date. Spring, 1834.] 
 
 Dear Sir, — I return forty-four volumes by 
 Tate. If they are not all your own, and some of 
 mine have slipt in, I do not think you will lose 
 much. Shall I go on with the Table Talk? I 
 will, if you like it, when the Culinary article has 
 appear' d. 
 
 Robins, the carrier, from the Swan, Snow Hill, 
 will bring any more contributions, thankfully to 
 be receiv'd ; I pay backwards and forwards. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 DCCXXXIX. — TO THOMAS HOOD 
 
 1834. 
 
 Dear Hood, — I have been infinitely amused 
 with Tylney Hall. 'T is a medley, without con- 
 fusion, of farce, melodrame, comedy, tragedy, 
 punchery, what-not. The Fete is as good as 
 H.'s Strollers in the Barn. For the serious part, 
 the warning Puci shouts over Raby's head is 
 most impressive. Duly Luckless Joe should not 
 have been halter' d; his Fates were brazen [?], 
 and not absolutely inexorable Clothos, and the 
 Creole should have been hanged. The puns are 
 so neat that the most inveterate foe to that kind 
 
 33 1 
 
of joke, not being expectant of 'em, might read 
 it all through and not find you out. With kind 
 remembrances to Mrs. Hood, yours, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 My sister, I hope, will relish it by and by, but 
 it puzzles her to read above a page or two a day. 
 
 DCCXL. — TO MARY BETHAM 
 
 Edmonton, January 24, 1834. 
 
 Dear Mary Betham, — I received the bill, and 
 when it is payable, some ten or twelve days hence, 
 will punctually do with the overplus as you direct. 
 I thought you would like to know it came to 
 hand, so I have not waited for the uncertainty 
 of when your nephew sets out. I suppose my 
 receipt will serve, for poor Mary is not in a 
 capacity to sign it. After being well from the 
 end of July to the end of December, she was 
 taken ill almost on the first day of the New Year, 
 and is as bad as poor creature can be. I expect 
 her fever to last fourteen or fifteen weeks — if 
 she gets well at all, which every successive illness 
 puts me in fear of. She has less and less strength 
 to throw it off, and they leave a dreadful depres- 
 sion after them. She was quite comfortable a few 
 weeks since, when Matilda came down here to 
 see us. 
 
 You shall excuse a short letter, for my hand 
 is unsteady. Indeed, the situation I am in with 
 
 332 
 
her shakes me sadly. She was quite able to appre- 
 ciate the kind legacy while she was well. Imag- 
 ine her kindest love to you, which is but buried 
 a while, and believe all the good wishes for your 
 restoration to health from C. Lamb 
 
 DCCXLI. — TO EDWARD MOXON 
 
 [January 28, 1834.] 
 
 I met with a man at my half-way house, who 
 told me many anecdotes of Kean's younger life. 
 He knew him thoroughly. His name is Wyatt, 
 living near the Bell, Edmonton. Also he referred 
 me to West, a publican, opposite St. George's 
 Church, Southwark, who knew him more inti- 
 mately. Is it worth Forster's while to enquire 
 after them ? C. L. 
 
 DCCXLII. — TO WILLIAM HONE 
 
 Church Street, Edmonton, 
 February 7, 1834. 
 
 My dear Sir, — I compassionate very much 
 your failure and your infirmities. I am in afflic- 
 tion. I am come to Edmonton to live altogether 
 with Mary, at the house where she is nursed, and 
 where we see nobody while she is ill, which is, 
 alas ! the greater part of the year now. 
 
 I cannot but think your application, with a 
 full statement, to the Literary Fund must succeed. 
 Your little political heats many years are past. 
 
 333 
 
You are now remember' d but as the editor of the 
 Every Day and Table Books. To them appeal. 
 You have Southey's testimony to their meritori- 
 ousness. He must be blind indeed who sees ought 
 in them but what is good-hearted, void of offence 
 to God and man. I know not a single member 
 of the Fund, but to whomsoever you may refer 
 to me I am ready to affirm that your speech and 
 actions since I have known you — ten or eleven 
 years I think — have been the most opposite to 
 anything profane or irreligious, and that in your 
 domestic relations a kinder husband or father, 
 as it seemed to me, could not be. Suppose you 
 transmitted your case, or petition, to Mr. Dilke, 
 editor of the Athenceum, with this note of mine ; 
 he knows me, and he may know some of the 
 Literary Society. I am totally unacquainted with 
 them. 
 
 With best wishes to you and Mrs. Hone, 
 Yours faithfully, C. Lamb 
 
 DCCXLIII. — TO MISS FRYER 
 
 February 14, 1834. 
 
 Dear Miss Fryer, — Your letter found me just 
 returned from keeping my birthday (pretty inno- 
 cent!) at Dover Street. I see them pretty often. 
 I have since had letters of business to write, or 
 should have replied earlier. In one word, be less 
 uneasy about me ; I bear my privations very well ; 
 I am not in the depths of desolation, as hereto- 
 
 334 
 
fore. Your admonitions are not lost upon me. 
 Your kindness has sunk into my heart. Have 
 faith in me ! It is no new thing for me to be 
 left to my sister. When she is not violent, her 
 rambling chat is better to me than the sense and 
 sanity of this world. Her heart is obscured, not 
 buried ; it breaks out occasionally ; and one can 
 discern a strong mind struggling with the billows 
 that have gone over it. I could be nowhere 
 happier than under the same roof with her. Her 
 memory is unnaturally strong ; and from ages 
 past, if we may so call the earliest records of our 
 poor life, she fetches thousands of names and 
 things that never would have dawned upon me 
 again, and thousands from the ten years she lived 
 before me. What took place from early girlhood 
 to her coming of age principally lives again (every 
 important thing and every trifle) in her brain 
 with the vividness of real presence. For twelve 
 hours incessantly she will pour out without 
 intermission all her past life, forgetting nothing, 
 pouring out name after name to the Waldens as 
 a dream ; sense and nonsense ; truths and errors 
 huddled together ; a medley between inspiration 
 and possession. What things we are ! I know 
 you will bear with me, talking of these things. 
 It seems to ease me ; for I have nobody to tell 
 these things to now. 
 
 Emma, I see, has got a harp ! and is learning 
 to play. She has framed her three Walton pic- 
 tures, and pretty they look. That is a book you 
 
 335 
 
should read ; such sweet religion in it — next 
 to Woolman's ! though the subject be baits and 
 hooks, and worms and fishes. She has my copy 
 at present to do two more from. 
 
 Very, very tired, I began this epistle, having 
 been epistolising all the morning, and very kindly 
 would I end it, could I find adequate expressions 
 to your kindness. We did set our minds on 
 seeing you in spring. One of us will indubitably. 
 But I am not skilled in almanac learning, to 
 know when spring precisely begins and ends. 
 Pardon my blots; I am glad you like your book. 
 I wish it had been half as worthy of your accept- 
 ance as John Woolman. But 't is a good-natured 
 book. 
 
 DCCXLIV. — TO MISS FRYER 
 
 [No date.] 
 
 My dear Miss Fryer, — By desire of Emma 
 I have attempted new words to the old nonsense 
 of Tartar Drum; but with the nonsense the sound 
 and spirit of the tune are unaccountably gone, 
 and we have agreed to discard the new version 
 altogether. As you may be more fastidious in 
 singing mere silliness, and a string of well- 
 sounding images without sense or coherence — 
 Drums of Tartars, who use none, and Tulip trees 
 ten foot high, not to mention Spirits in Sun- 
 beams, &c, — than we are, so you are at liberty 
 to sacrifice an enspiriting movement to a little 
 
 33 6 
 
sense, tho' I like Little-sense less than his vagary- 
 ing younger sister No-sense — so I send them — 
 
 The fourth line of first stanza is from an old 
 ballad. 
 
 Emma is looking weller and handsomer (as 
 you say) than ever. Really, if she goes on thus 
 improving, by the time she is nine and thirty 
 she will be a tolerable comely person. But I 
 may not live to see it. — I take beauty to be 
 catching — a cholera sort of thing. Now, whether 
 the constant presence of a handsome object — 
 for there 's only two of us — may not have the 
 effect — but the subject is delicate, and as my 
 old great-Ant used to say — " Andsome is as 
 andsome duzz" — that was my great-Ant's way 
 of spelling — (Emma's way of spelling Miss Um- 
 fris, as I spell her Aunt). 
 
 Most and best kind things say to yourself and 
 dear Mother for all your kindnesses to our Em., 
 tho' in truth I am a little tired with her ever- 
 lasting repetition of 'em. Yours very truly, 
 
 Ch. Lamb 
 
 love will come 
 
 Tune : " The Tartar Drum " 
 I 
 
 Guard thy feelings, pretty Vestal, 
 From the smooth Intruder free ; 
 
 Cage thine heart in bars of chrystal, 
 Lock it with a golden key : 
 
 Thro' the bars demurely stealing — 
 Noiseless footstep, accent dumb, 
 
 337 
 
His approach to none revealing — 
 Watch, or watch not, Love will come. 
 
 His approach to none revealing — 
 
 Watch, or watch not, Love will come — Love, 
 Watch, or watch not, Love will come. 
 
 II 
 
 Scornful Beauty may deny him — 
 
 He hath spells to charm disdain ; 
 Homely Features may defy him — 
 
 Both at length must wear the chain. 
 Haughty Youth in Courts of Princes — 
 
 Hermit poor with age o'ercome — 
 His soft plea at last convinces; 
 
 Sooner, later, Love will come — 
 
 His soft plea at length convinces; 
 
 Sooner, later, Love will come — Love, 
 Sooner, later, Love will come. 
 
 DCCXLV.— TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 Church Street, Edmonton, February 22 [1834]. 
 
 Dear Wordsworth, — I write from a house of 
 mourning. The oldest and best friends I have 
 left are in trouble. A branch of them (and they 
 of the best stock of God's creatures, I believe) is 
 establishing a school at Carlisle. Her name is 
 Louisa Martin, her address 75 Castle Street, Car- 
 lisle; her qualities (and her motives for this 
 exertion) are the most amiable, most upright. 
 For thirty years she has been tried by me, and 
 on her behaviour I would stake my soul. O if 
 you can recommend her, how would I love you ! 
 if I could love you better. Pray, pray, recom- 
 
 338 
 
mend her. She is as good a human creature, — 
 next to my sister, perhaps the most exemplary 
 female I ever knew. Moxon tells me you would 
 like a letter from me. You shall have one. This 
 I cannot mingle up with any nonsense which you 
 usually tolerate from, C. Lamb. Need he add 
 loves to wife, sister, and all ? 
 
 Poor Mary is ill again, after a short lucid in- 
 terval of four or five months. In short, I may 
 call her half dead to me. 
 
 Good you are to me. Yours with fervour of 
 friendship; forever. 
 
 Turn over. 
 
 If you want references, the Bishop of Carlisle 
 may be one. Louisa's sister (as good as she, she 
 cannot be better tho' she tries) educated the 
 daughters of the late Earl of Carnarvon, and he 
 settled a handsome annuity on her for life. In 
 short all the family are a sound rock. The pre- 
 sent Lord Carnarvon married Howard of Gray- 
 stock's sister. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [Wordsworth has written on the wrapper, " Lamb's last 
 letter."] 
 
 DCCXLVL — TO THOMAS MANNING 
 
 May 10, 1834. 
 
 You made me feel so funny, so happy-like ; it 
 was as if I was reading one of your old letters 
 taken out at hazard any time between the last 
 
 339 
 
twenty years, 't was so the same. The unity of 
 place, a garden ! The old Dramatis Personae, a 
 landlady and daughter. The puns the same in 
 mould. Will nothing change you? 'T is but a 
 short week since honest Ryle and I were lament- 
 ing the gone-by days of Manning and whist. 
 How savourily did he remember them! Might 
 some great year but bring them back again ! 
 This was my exclaim, and R. did not ask for an 
 explanation. 
 
 I have had a scurvy nine years of it, and am 
 now in the sorry fifth act. Twenty weeks nigh 
 has she been now violent, with but a few sound 
 months before, and these in such dejection that 
 her fever might seem a relief to it. I tried to 
 bring her to town in the winter once or twice, 
 but it failed. Tuthill led me to expect that this 
 illness would lengthen with her years, and it has 
 cruelly — with that new feature of despondency 
 after. I am with her alone now in a proper 
 house. She is, I hope, recovering. We play 
 picquet, and it is like the old times a while, then 
 goes off. I struggle to town rarely, and then 
 to see London, with little other motive; for 
 what is left there hardly? The streets and shops 
 entertaining ever, else I feel as in a desert, and 
 get me home to my cave. Save that once a 
 month I pass a day, a gleam in my life, with 
 Cary at the Museum (he is the flower of clergy- 
 men) and breakfast next morning with Robinson. 
 I look to tbis as a treat. It sustains me. C. is 
 
 34° 
 
a dear fellow, with but two vices, which in any 
 less good than himself would be crimes past re- 
 demption. He has no relish for Parson Adams ; 
 hints that he might not be a very great Greek 
 scholar after all (does Fielding hint that he was 
 a Porson ?) — and prefers Ye shepherds so cheerful 
 and gay, and My banks they are furnished with bees, 
 to The Schoolmistress. I have not seen Wright's, 
 but the faithfulness of C. Mary and I can attest. 
 For last year, in a good interval, I giving some 
 lessons to Emma, now Mrs. Moxon, in the sense 
 part of her Italian (I knew no words), Mary 
 pertinaciously undertook, being sixty-nine, to 
 read the Inferno all thro' with the help of his 
 translation, and we got thro' it with dictionaries 
 and grammars, of course to our satisfaction. Her 
 perseverance was gigantic, almost painful. Her 
 head was over her task, like a sucking bee, morn 
 to night. We were beginning the Purgatory, 
 but got on less rapidly, our great authority for 
 grammar, Emma, being fled, but should have 
 proceeded but for this misfortune. Do not come 
 to town without apprising me. We must all 
 three meet somehow and "drink a cup." 
 
 Yours, C. L. 
 
 Mary strives and struggles to be content when 
 she is well. Last year when we talked of being 
 dull (we had just lost our seven-years-nearly in- 
 mate), and Gary's invitation came, she said, 
 " Did not I say something or other would turn 
 
 341 
 
up?" In her first walk out of the house, she 
 would read every auction advertisement along 
 the road, and when I would stop her she said, 
 "These are my play-bills. " She felt glad to get 
 into the world again, but then follows lowness. 
 She is getting about, tho', I very much hope. 
 She is rising, and will claim her morning pic- 
 quet. I go to put this in the post first. I walk 
 nine or ten miles a day, always up the road, 
 dear London-wards. Fields, flowers, birds, and 
 green lanes I have no heart for. The bare road 
 is cheerful, and almost as good as a street. I 
 saunter to the Red Lion duly, as you used to 
 the Peacock. 
 
 NOTE 
 [Lamb's last letter to Manning.] 
 
 DCCXLVII. — TO CHARLES C. CLARKE 
 
 [No date. End of June, 1834.] 
 
 We heard the music in the Abbey at Winch- 
 more Hill ! and the notes were incomparably 
 soften'd by the distance. Novello's chromatics 
 were distinctly audible. Clara was faulty in B 
 flat. Otherwise she sang like an angel. The 
 trombone and Beethoven's walzes were the best. 
 Who played the oboe? 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [The letter refers to the performance of Handel's " Crea- 
 tion," at the Musical Festival, in Westminster Abbey, on 
 
 342 
 
June 24, 1834, when Novello and Atwood were the organists, 
 and Clara Novello (Countess Gigliucci) was one of the 
 singers.] 
 
 DCCXLVTII.— TO JOHN FORSTER 
 
 [June 25, 1834.] 
 
 Dear F., — I simply sent for the Miltons be- 
 cause Alsop has some Books of mine, and I 
 thought they might travel with them. But keep 
 'em as much longer as you like. I never trouble 
 my head with other people's quarrels; I do not 
 always understand my own. I seldom see them 
 in Dover Street. I know as little as the Man in 
 the Moon about your joint transactions, and care 
 as little. If you have lost a little portion of my 
 "good will," it is that you do not come and 
 see me. Arrange with Procter, when you have 
 done with your moving accidents. 
 
 Yours, ambulaturus, C. L. 
 
 DCCXLIX. — TO J. FULLER RUSSELL 
 
 [Summer, 1834.] 
 
 Mr. Lamb's compliments, and shall be happy 
 to look over the lines as soon as ever Mr. Russell 
 shall send them. He is at Mr. Walden's, — 
 Church {not Bury) St., Edmd. 
 
 Line 10. "Ween," and "wist," and "wot," 
 and "eke" are antiquated frippery, and unmod- 
 ernize a poem rather than give it an antique air, 
 
 343 
 
as some strong old words may do. " I guess," " I 
 know," " I knew," are quite as significant. 
 
 31. Why " ee " — barbarous Scoticism ! — 
 when " eye " is much better and chimes to " cav- 
 alry " ? A sprinkling of disused words where all 
 the style else is after the approved recent fashion 
 teases and puzzles. 
 
 37* [Anon the storm begins to slake, 
 The sullen clouds to melt away, 
 The moon becalmed in a blue lake 
 Looks down with melancholy ray.] 
 
 The moon becalmed in a blue lake would be 
 more apt to look up. I see my error — the sky is 
 the lake — and beg you to laugh at it. 
 
 59. What is a maiden's " een," south of the 
 Tweed ? You may as well call her prettily turned 
 ears her " lugs." 
 
 " On the maiden's lugs they fall " (verse 79). 
 
 144. "A coy young Miss " will never do. For 
 though you are presumed to be a modern, writing 
 only of days of old, yet you should not write a 
 word purely unintelligible to your heroine. Some 
 understanding should be kept up between you. 
 " Miss " is a nickname not two centuries old ; 
 came in at about the Restoration. The " King's 
 Misses " is the oldest use of it I can remember. 
 It is Mistress Anne Page, not Miss Page. Modern 
 names and usages should be kept out of sight in 
 an old subject. W. Scott was sadly faulty in this 
 respect. 
 
 344 
 
2o8. [Tear of sympathy.] Pity's sacred dew. 
 Sympathy is a young lady's word, rife in modern 
 novels, and is almost always wrongly applied. To 
 sympathize is to feel with, not simply for another. 
 I write verses and sympathize with you. You have 
 the toothache, I have not ; I feel for you, I can- 
 not sympathize. 
 
 243. What is "sheen " ? Has it more signifi- 
 cance than "bright" ? Richmond in its old name 
 was Shene. Would you call an omnibus to take 
 you to Shene ? How the "all's right " man would 
 stare ! 
 
 36 3' [The violet nestled in the shade, 
 
 Which fills with perfume all the glade, 
 Yet bashful as a timid maid 
 Thinks to elude the searching eye 
 Of every stranger passing by, 
 Might well compare with Emily.] 
 
 A strangely involved simile. The maiden is lik- 
 en' d to a violet which has been just before likened 
 to a maid. Yet it reads prettily, and I would not 
 have it alter'd. 
 
 420. "Een" come again? In line 407 you 
 speak it out " eye " bravely like an Englishman. 
 
 468. Sorceresses do not entice by wrinkles, 
 but, being essentially aged, appear in assumed 
 beauty. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [This communication was sent to Notes and Queries by the 
 late Mr. J. Fuller Russell, F.S. A., with this explanation : " I 
 was residing at Enfield in the Cambridge Long Vacation, 1834, 
 and — perhaps to the neglect of more improving pursuits — 
 
 345 
 
composed a metrical novel, named ' Emily de Wilton,' in three 
 parts. When the first of them was completed, I ventured to 
 introduce myself to Charles Lamb (who was living at Edmon- 
 ton at the time), and telling him what I had done, and that I 
 had ' scarcely heart to proceed until I had obtained the opinion 
 of a competent judge respecting my verses,' I asked him to 
 ' while away an idle hour in their perusal,' adding, ' I fear you 
 will think me very rude and very intrusive, but I am one of the 
 most nervous souls in Christendom.' Moved, possibly, by this 
 diffident (not to say unusual) confession, Elia speedily gave his 
 consent." 
 
 The poem was never printed. Lamb's pains in this matter 
 serve to show how kindly disposed he was in these later years 
 to all young men; and how exact a sense of words he had. — 
 E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 DCCL. — TO J. FULLER RUSSELL 
 
 [Summer, 1834.] 
 
 Sir, — I hope you will finish Emily. The story 
 I cannot at this stage anticipate. Some looseness 
 of diction I have taken liberty to advert to. It 
 wants a little more severity of style. There are 
 too many prettinesses, but parts of the poem are 
 better than pretty, and I thank you for the 
 perusal. Your humble Servant, C. Lamb 
 
 Perhaps you will favour me with a call while 
 you stay. 
 
 DCCLL — TO CHARLES W. DILKE 
 
 [No date. End of July, 1834.] 
 
 Dear Sir, — I am totally incapable of doing 
 346 
 
what you suggest at present, and think it right to 
 tell you so without delay. It would shock me, who 
 am shocked enough already, to sit down to write 
 about it. I have no letters of poor C. By and 
 bye what scraps I have shall be yours. Pray ex- 
 cuse me. It is not for want of obliging you, I 
 assure you. For your box we most cordially feel 
 thankful. I shall be your debtor in my poor way. 
 I do assure you I am incapable. Again, excuse 
 me. Yours sincerely, C. L. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [Coleridge's death had occurred on July 25, in his sixty- 
 second year ; and Dilke had written to Lamb asking for some 
 words on that event, for The Atherneum. A little while later 
 a request was made by John Forster that Lamb would write 
 something for the album of a Mr. Keymer. It was then that 
 Lamb wrote the few words that stand under the title On the 
 Death of Coleridge. — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 DCCLII. — TO REV. JAMES GILLMAN 
 
 Edmonton, August 5, 1834. 
 
 My dear Sir, — The sad week being over, I 
 must write to you to say that I was glad of being 
 spared from attending ; I have no words to ex- 
 press my feeling with you all. I can only say 
 that when you think a short visit from me would 
 be acceptable, when your father and mother 
 shall be able to see me with comfort, I will come 
 to the bereaved house. Express to them my ten- 
 derest regards and hopes that they will continue 
 
 347 
 
our friends still. We both love and respect them 
 as much as a human being can, and finally thank 
 them with our hearts for what they have been to 
 the poor departed. God bless you all, 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 DCCLIII. — TO J. H. GREEN 
 
 August 26, 1834. 
 
 I thank you deeply for a copy of the will 
 (Coleridge's), which I had seen, but without the 
 codicil at Highgate. My sister and myself are 
 highly gratified at the affectionate remembrance 
 from our dear old friend. I will endeavour to 
 collect and send all the fragments we possess of 
 his handwriting from leaves of good old books, 
 &c. Letters I fear I have none, having been long 
 improvident of preserving any. Accept our grat- 
 itude for your reverential care of his memory and 
 wishes C. Lamb 
 
 DCCLIV. — TO H. F. CARY 
 
 September 12, 1834. 
 
 Dear C, — We long to see you, and hear 
 account of your peregrinations, of the Tun at 
 Heidelburg, the Clock at Strasburg, the statue 
 at Rotterdam, the dainty Rhenish and poignant 
 Moselle wines, Westphalian hams, and Botargoes 
 of Altona. But perhaps you have seen not tasted 
 any of these things. 
 
 348 
 
Yours, very glad to claim you back again to 
 your proper centre, books and Bibliothecae, 
 
 C. and M. Lamb 
 
 " By Cot's plessing we will not be absence at 
 the grace." 
 
 I have only got your note just now per negli- 
 gentiam periniqui Moxoni. 
 
 DCCLV. — TO H. F. CARY 
 
 October, 1834. 
 
 I protest I know not in what words to invest 
 my sense of the shameful violation of hospitality, 
 which I was guilty of on that fatal Wednesday. 
 Let it be blotted from the calendar. Had it been 
 committed at a layman's house, say a merchant's 
 or manufacturer's, a cheesemonger's or green- 
 grocer's, or, to go higher, a barrister's, a member 
 of Parliament's, a rich banker's, I should have 
 felt alleviation, a drop of self-pity. But to be 
 seen deliberately to go out of the house of a 
 clergyman drunk ! a clergyman of the Church of 
 England too ! not that alone, but of an expounder 
 of that dark Italian Hierophant, an exposition 
 little short of his who dared unfold the Apoca- 
 lypse : divine riddles both and (without supernal 
 grace vouchsafed) Arks not to be fingered with- 
 out present blasting to the touchers. And, then, 
 from what house ! Not a common glebe or vic- 
 arage (which yet had been shameful), but from 
 
 349 
 
a kingly repository of sciences, human and di- 
 vine, with the primate of England for its guard- 
 ian, arrayed in public majesty, from which the 
 profane vulgar are bid fly. 
 
 Could all those volumes have taught me no- 
 thing better ! With feverish eyes on the succeed- 
 ing dawn I opened upon the faint light, enough 
 to distinguish, in a strange chamber not imme- 
 diately to be recognised, garters, hose, waistcoat, 
 neckerchief, arranged in dreadful order and pro- 
 portion, which I knew was not mine own. 'Tis 
 the common symptom, on awakening, I judge 
 my last night's condition from. A tolerable scat- 
 tering on the floor I hail as being too probably 
 my own, and if the candle-stick be not removed, 
 I assoil myself. But this finical arrangement, 
 this finding everything in the morning in exact 
 diametrical rectitude, torments me. By whom 
 was I divested ? Burning blushes! not by the fair 
 hands of nymphs, the Buffam Graces ? Remote 
 whispers suggested that I coached it home in tri- 
 umph — far be that from working pride in me, 
 for I was unconscious of the locomotion ; that 
 a young Mentor accompanied a reprobate old 
 Telemachus ; that, the Trojan like, he bore his 
 charge upon his shoulders, while the wretched 
 incubus, in glimmering sense, hiccuped drunken 
 snatches of flying on the bats' wings after sunset. 
 An aged servitor was also hinted at, to make 
 disgrace more complete : one, to whom my 
 ignominy may offer further occasions of revolt 
 
 35° 
 
(to which he was before too fondly inclining) 
 from the true faith ; for, at a sight of my help- 
 lessness, what more was needed to drive him to 
 the advocacy of independency ? Occasion led me 
 through Great Russell Street yesterday. I gazed 
 at the great knocker. My feeble hands in vain 
 essayed to lift it. I dreaded that Argus Portitor, 
 who doubtless lanterned me out on that prodi- 
 gious night. I called the Elginian marbles. They 
 were cold to my suit. I shall never again, I said, 
 on the wide gates unfolding, say without fear of 
 thrusting back, in a light but a peremptory air, 
 " I am going to Mr. Cary's." I passed by the 
 walls of Balclutha. I had imaged to myself a zo- 
 diac of third Wednesdays irradiating by glimpses 
 the Edmonton dulness. I dreamed of Highmore ! 
 I am de-vited to come on Wednesdays. 
 
 Villanous old age that, with second childhood, 
 brings linked hand in hand her inseparable twin, 
 new inexperience, which knows not effects of 
 liquor. Where I was to have sate for a sober, 
 middle-aged-and-a-half gentleman, literary too, 
 the neat-fingered artist can educe no notions but 
 of a dissolute Silenus, lecturing natural philoso- 
 phy to a jeering Chromius or a Mnasilus. Pudet. 
 From the context gather the lost name of . 
 
 DCCLVL — TO H. F. CARY 
 
 [October 18, 1834.] 
 
 Dear Sir, — The unbounded range of muni- 
 35i 
 
ficence presented to my choice staggers me. 
 What can twenty votes do for one hundred and 
 two widows ? I cast my eyes hopeless among 
 the viduage. 
 
 N. B. Southey might be ashamed of himself 
 to let his aged mother stand at the top of the 
 list, with his j[ioo a year and butt of sack. 
 Sometimes I sigh over No. I 2, Mrs. Carve-ill, 
 some poor relation of mine, no doubt. No. 1 5 
 has my wishes ; but then she is a Welsh one. 
 I have Ruth upon No. 21. I'd tug hard for 
 No. 24. No. 25 is an anomaly: there can be no 
 Mrs. Hogg. No. 34 ensnares me. No. 73 should 
 not have met so foolish a person. No. 92 may 
 bob it as she likes ; but she catches no cherry of 
 me. So I have even fixedat hap-hazard, as you '11 
 see. Yours, every third Wednesday, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 [Talfourd states that the note is in answer to a letter en- 
 closing a list of candidates for a Widows' Fund Society, for 
 which he was entitled to vote. A Mrs. Southey headed the 
 list.] 
 
 DCCLVII. — TO MRS. NORRIS 
 
 [Edmonton, November, 1834.] 
 
 Dear Mrs. Norris, — I found Mary on my 
 return not worse, and she is now no better. I send 
 all my nonsense I could scrape together, and wish 
 your young ladies well thro' them. I hope they 
 
 35 2 
 
will like Amwell. Be in no hurry to return them. 
 Six months hence will do. Remember me kindly 
 to them and to Richard. Also to Mary and her 
 cousin. Yours truly, C. Lamb 
 
 Pray give me a line to say you received 'em. 
 I send 'em Wednesday 1 9th, from the Roebuck. 
 
 DCCLVIII. — TO MR. CHILDS 
 
 Monday. Church Street, Edmonton 
 (not Enfield, as you erroneously directed yours). 
 [December, 1834.] 
 
 Dear Sir, — The volume which you seem to 
 want is not to be had for love or money. I with 
 difficulty procured a copy for myself. Yours is 
 gone to enlighten the tawny Hindoos. What 
 a supreme felicity to the author (only he is no 
 traveller) on the Ganges or Hydaspes (Indian 
 streams) to meet a smutty Gentoo ready to burst 
 with laughing at the tale of Bo-Bo ! for doubt- 
 less it hath been translated into all the dialects 
 of the East. I grieve the less that Europe should 
 want it. I cannot gather from your letter, whether 
 you are aware that a second series of the Essays 
 is published by Moxon, in Dover Street, Picca- 
 dilly, called The Last Essays of Elia, and, I am 
 told, is not inferior to the former. Shall I order 
 a copy for you, and will you accept it? Shall 
 I lend you, at the same time, my sole copy of the 
 former volume (oh ! return it) for a month or 
 
 353 
 
two ? In return, you shall favour me with the 
 loan of one of those Norfolk-bred grunters that 
 you laud so highly; I promise not to keep it 
 above a day. What a funny name Bungay is ! I 
 never dreamt of a correspondent thence. I used 
 to think of it as some Utopian town or borough 
 in Gotham land. I now believe in its existence, 
 as part of merry England ! 
 
 [Some lines scratched out^\ 
 The part I have scratched out is the best of the 
 letter. Let me have your commands. 
 
 Ch. Lamb, alias Eli a 
 
 note 
 
 [Talfourd thus explains this letter: " In December, 1834, 
 Mr. Lamb received a letter from a gentleman, a stranger to 
 him, — Mr. Childs of Bungay, — whose copy of Elia had been 
 sent on an Oriental voyage, and who, in order to replace it, 
 applied to Mr. Lamb." Mr. Childs was a printer. His busi- 
 ness subsequently became that of Messrs. R. & R. Clark, 
 which still flourishes.] 
 
 DCCLIX. — TO MRS. GEORGE DYER 
 
 December 22, 1834. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Dyer, — I am very uneasy about 
 a Book which I either have lost or left at your 
 house on Thursday. It was the book I went out 
 to fetch from Miss Buffam's, while the tripe was 
 frying. It is called Phillip's Theatrum Poeta- 
 rum; but it is an English book. I think I left 
 it in the parlour. It is Mr. Cary's book, and I 
 would not lose it for the world. Pray, if you 
 
 354 
 
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 
 
 note 
 
 [This is the last letter of Charles Lamb, who tripped and 
 fell in Church Street, Edmonton, on December 22, and died 
 of erysipelas on December 27. At the time of his death 
 Lamb was sixty, all but a few weeks. 
 
 Mary Lamb, with occasional lapses into sound health, sur- 
 vived him until May 20, 1847. At first she continued to live 
 at Edmonton, but a few years later moved to the house of 
 Mrs. Parsons, sister of her old nurse, Miss James, in St. 
 John's Wood. — E. V. Lucas.] 
 
 VThe following undated letters are here given. 
 The first to William Ayrton was probably written 
 about May 14, 1821, and the second should have 
 been inserted after the first letter to Vincent Novello 
 on p. 233 of this volume :] 
 
 DCCLX. — TO WILLIAM AYRTON 
 
 [Undated.] 
 
 Dear A., — We are at home this Evening. 
 Excuse forms from, 
 
 Your uninformed, C. L. 
 
 We'nsdy. 
 
 I think Madame Noblet the least graceful 
 dancer I ever did not see. 
 
 355 
 
DCCLXI.— TO WILLIAM AYRTON 
 
 Enfield, Thursday. 
 
 Dear Ayrton, — Novello paid us a visit yes- 
 terday, and I very much wished you with us. 
 Our conversation was principally, as you may sup- 
 pose, upon Music; and he desiring me to give him 
 my real opinion respecting the distinct grades of 
 excellence in all the eminent composers of the 
 Italian, German, and English Schools, I have 
 done it, rather to oblige him, than from any over- 
 weening opinion I have of my own judgment on 
 that science. Such as it is, I submit it to better 
 critics, and am, dear Ayrton, 
 
 Yours sincerely, Ch. Lamb 
 
 P. S. You will find the Essay over leaf — that 
 is to say, if you look for it there. 
 
 FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT 
 COMPOSERS 
 
 Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, 
 Just as the whim bites. For my part, 
 I do not care a farthing candle 
 For either of them, or for Handel. 
 Cannot a man live free and easy, 
 Without admiring Pergolesi ! 
 Or thro' the world with comfort go 
 That never heard of Doctor Blow ! 
 So help me God, I hardly have ; 
 And yet I eat, and drink, and shave, 
 Like other people, (if you watch it,) 
 And know no more of stave or crotchet 
 
 35 6 
 
Than did the primitive Peruvians ; 
 
 Or those old ante-queer Diluvians 
 
 That lived in the unwash'd world with Tubal, 
 
 Before that dirty Blacksmith Jubal, 
 
 By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at, 
 
 Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. 
 
 I care no more for Cimerosa 
 
 Than he did for Salvator Rosa, 
 
 Being no Painter ; and bad luck 
 
 Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck ! 
 
 Old Tycho Brahe and modern Herschel 
 
 Had something in 'em ; but who 's Purcel ? 
 
 The devil with his foot so cloven, 
 
 For aught I care, may take Beethoven ; 
 
 And, if the bargain does not suit, 
 
 I '11 throw him Weber in to boot ! 
 
 There 's not the splitting of a splinter 
 
 To chus 'twixt him last named, and Winter. 
 
 Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido 
 
 Knew just as much, God knows, as I do. 
 
 I would not go four miles to visit 
 
 Sebastian Bach — or Batch — which is it ? 
 
 No more I would for Bononcini. 
 
 As for Novello and Rossini, 
 
 I shall not say a word to grieve 'em, 
 
 Because they 're living. So I leave 'em. 
 
 DCCLXII. — TO J. BADAMS 
 
 [Undated.] 
 
 Dear Badams, — I am very, very sorry at my 
 heatedness yesterday, which spoil'd the pleasure 
 I should have taken in seeing you better ; but I 
 had had a four or five hours hot walk, with the 
 delicate task of dissuading a friend from a pur- 
 pose of taking a house here, which friend would 
 
 357 
 
have attracted down crowds of literary men, 
 which men would have driven me wild ; and in 
 my rage it seem'd to me that the person I un- 
 justly fell upon was meditating the same sort of 
 colonization here. Respects and sincere likings 
 to Mrs. Badams, and the most humble apology 
 C. L. can offer. 
 
 358 
 
PRINTED BV H. O. HOUGHTON & CO. 
 CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, U. S. A. 
 
 Cfic UtbrrsiDc Pices