The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb, Vol. 5 by Edited by E. V. Lucas Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb, Vol. 5 Author: Edited by E. V. Lucas Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9365] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on September 25, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS CHARLES AND MARY LAMB *** Produced by Keren Vergon, David King and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE LETTERS OF CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 1796-1820 EDITED BY E. V. LUCAS WITH A FRONTISPIECE PREFACE This edition of the correspondence of Charles and Mary Lamb contains 618 letters, of which 45 are by Mary Lamb alone. It is the only edition to contain all Mary Lamb's letters and also a reference to, or abstract of, every letter of Charles Lamb's that cannot, for reasons of copyright, be included. Canon Ainger's last edition contains 467 letters and the _Every-man's Library Edition_ contains 572. In 1905 the Boston Bibliophile Society, a wealthy association of American collectors, issued privately--since privately one can do anything--an edition in six volumes (limited to 453 sets) of the correspondence of Charles and Mary Lamb, containing everything that was available, which means practically everything that was known: the number reaching a total of 762 letters; but it will be many years before such a collection can be issued in England, since each of the editions here has copyright matter peculiar to itself. My attempt to induce the American owner of the largest number of new letters to allow me to copy them from the Boston Bibliophile edition has proved fruitless. And here a word as to copyright in such documents in England, the law as most recently laid down being established upon a set of sixteen of Lamb's letters which unhappily are not (except in very brief abstract) in the present edition. These letters, chiefly to Robert Lloyd, were first published in _Charles Lamb and the Lloyds_, under my editorship, in 1900, the right to make copies and publish them having been acquired by Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. from Mrs. Steeds, a descendant of Charles Lloyd. The originals were then purchased by Mr. J. M. Dent, who included copies in his edition of Lamb's letters, under Mr. Macdonald's editorship, in 1903. Meanwhile Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. had sold their rights in the letters to Messrs. Macmillan for Canon Ainger's edition, and when Mr. Dent's edition was issued Messrs. Macmillan with Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. brought an action. Mr. Dent thereupon acquired from Mr. A. H. Moxon, the son of Emma Isola, Lamb's residuary legatee, all his rights as representing the original author. The case was heard before Mr. Justice Kekewich early in 1906. The judge held that "the proprietor of the author's manuscript in the case of letters, as in the case of any other manuscript, meant the owner of the actual paper on which the matter was written, and that in the case of letters the recipient was the owner. No doubt the writer could restrain the recipient from publishing, and so could the writer's representatives after death; but although they had the right to restrain others from publishing, it did not follow that they had the right to publish and acquire copyright. This right was given to the proprietor of the manuscript, who, although he could be restrained from publishing by the writer's personal representatives, yet, if not so restrained, could publish and acquire copyright." Mr. Dent appealed against this verdict and his appeal was heard on October 31 and November 7, 1906, when the decision of Mr. Justice Kekewich was upheld with a clearer definition of the right of restraint. The Court, in deciding (I quote again from Mr. MacGillivray's summary) that "the proprietors of manuscript letters were, after the writer's death, entitled to the copyright in them when published, were careful to make it clear that they did not intend to overrule the authority of those cases where a deceased man's representatives have been held entitled to restrain the publication of his private letters by the recipients or persons claiming through them. The Court expressly affirmed the common law right of the writer and his representatives in unpublished letters. It did not follow that because the copyright, if there was publication, would be in the person who, being proprietor of the author's manuscript, first published, that that person would be entitled to publish. The common law right would be available to enable the legal personal representatives, under proper circumstances, to restrain publication." That is how the copyright law as regards letters stands to-day (1912). The present edition has been revised throughout and in it will be found much new material. I have retained from the large edition only such notes as bear upon the Lambs and the place of the letters in their life, together with such explanatory references as seemed indispensable. For the sources of quotations and so forth the reader must consult the old edition. For permission to include certain new letters I have to thank the Master of Magdalene, Mr. Ernest Betham, Major Butterworth, Mr. Bertram Dobell, Mr. G. Dunlop, and Mr. E. D. North of New York. As an example of other difficulties of editing, at any given time, the correspondence of Charles and Mary Lamb, I may say that while these volumes were going through the press, Messrs. Sotheby offered for sale new letters by both hands, the existence of which was unknown equally to English editors and to Boston Bibliophiles. The most remarkable of them is a joint letter from sister and brother to Louisa Martin, their child-friend (to whom Lamb wrote the verses "The Ape"), dated March 28, 1809. Mary begins, and Charles then takes the pen and becomes mischievous. Thus, "Hazlitt's child died of swallowing a bag of white paint, which the poor little innocent thing mistook for sugar candy. It told its mother just before it died, that it did not like soft sugar candy, and so it came out, which was not before suspected. When it was opened several other things were found in it, particularly a small hearth brush, two golden pippins, and a letter which I had written to Hazlitt from Bath. The letter had nothing remarkable in it." ... The others are from brother and sister to Miss Kelly, the actress, whom Lamb, in 1819, wished to marry. The first, March 27, 1820, is from Mary Lamb saying that she has taken to French as a recreation and has been reading Racine. The second is from Lamb, dated July 6, 1825, thanking Miss Kelly for tickets at Arnold's theatre, the Lyceum, and predicting the success of his farce "The Pawnbroker's Daughter." How many more new letters are still to come to light, who shall say? In Mr. Bedford's design for the cover of this edition certain Elian symbolism will be found. The upper coat of arms is that of Christ's Hospital, where Lamb was at school; the lower is that of the Inner Temple, where he was born and spent many years. The figures at the bells are those which once stood out from the facade of St. Dunstan's Church in Fleet Street, and are now in Lord Londesborough's garden in Regent's Park. Lamb shed tears when they were removed. The tricksy sprite and the candles (brought by Betty) need no explanatory words of mine. E. V. L. CONTENTS OF VOLUME V LETTERS BY NUMBER 1796. 1 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge May 27 From the original in the possession of Mrs. Alfred Morrison. 2 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge End of May? From the original (Morrison Collection). 3 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge June 10 From the original (Morrison Collection). 4 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge June 13 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn's edition). 5 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge July 1 From the original (Morrison Collection). 6 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge July 5 From the facsimile of the original (Mr. E. H. Coleridge). 7 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge July 6 From the original (Morrison Collection). 8 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Sept. 27 From the original (Morrison Collection). 9 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Oct. 3 From the original (Morrison Collection). 10 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Oct. 17 From the original (Morrison Collection). 11 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Oct. 24 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 12 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Oct. 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 13 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Nov. 8 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 14 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Nov. 14 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 15 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Dec. 2 From the original (Morrison Collection). 16 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Dec. 5 From the original (Morrison Collection). 17 Charles Lamb to S. T, Coleridge Dec. 9 Mr. Hazlitt's text (The Lambs). 18 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Dec. 10 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 1797. 19 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Jan. 2 From the original (Morrison Collection). 20 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Jan. 10 From the original (Morrison Collection). 21 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Jan. 18 From the original (Morrison Collection). 22 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Feb. 5 From the original (Morrison Collection). 23 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Feb. 13 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 24 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge April 7 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 25 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge April 15 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 26 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge June 13 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 27 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge June 24 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 28 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge (?)June 29 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 29 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Late July Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 30 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Aug. 24 From the original (Morrison Collection). 31 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge About Sept. 20 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 1798. 32 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Jan. 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 33 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Early summer From the original in the Gluck Collection at Buffalo, U.S.A. 34 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey July 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 35 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Oct. 18 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 36 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Oct. 29 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 37 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Nov. 3 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 38 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Nov. 8 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 39 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey ?Nov. Mr. Hazlitt's text (_The Lambs_). 40 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Nov. 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 41 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Dec. 27 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 1799. 42 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Jan. 21 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 43 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Jan. or Feb. From the original. 44 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey March 15 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 45 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey March 20 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 46 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Oct. 31 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 47 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Dec. Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 48 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Dec. 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 1800. 49 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge ?Jan. 23 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 50 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Feb. 13 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 51 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning March 1 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 52 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning March 17 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 53 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning April 5 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 54 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge ?April 16 or 17 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 55 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge ?Spring Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 56 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge May 12 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 57 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning May 20 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 58 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning ?May 25 59 Charles Lamb to J. M. Gutch No date From Mr. G. A. Gutch's original. 60 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge ?Late July Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 61 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Aug. 6 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 62 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Aug. 9 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 63 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Aug. 11 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 64 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Aug. 14 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 65 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Aug. 24 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 66 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Aug. 26 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 67 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Aug. 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 68 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Sept. 22 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 69 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Oct. 16 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 70 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Nov. 3 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 71 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Nov. 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 72 Charles Lamb to William Godwin Dec. 4 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 73 Charles Lamb to William Godwin No date Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 74 Charles Lamb to William Godwin Dec. 10 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 75 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Dec. 13 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 76 Charles Lamb to William Godwin Dec. 14 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 77 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Dec. 16 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 78, 79 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning End of year From _The Athenaeum_. 80 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Dec. 27 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 1801. 81 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth. Jan. 30 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 82 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Feb. 15 Canon Ainger's text. 83 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Late Feb. Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 84 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning April Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 85 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning ?April Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 86 Charles Lamb to William Godwin June 29 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 87 Charles Lamb to Walter Wilson Aug. 14 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 88 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning ?Aug. Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 89 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Aug. 31 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 90 Charles Lamb to William Godwin Sept. 9 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 91 Charles Lamb to William Godwin (_fragment_) Sept. 17 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 92 Charles Lamb to Mrs. Godwin No date Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 93 Charles Lamb to John Rickman ?Nov. From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 1802. 94 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning ?Feb. 15 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 95 Charles Lamb to John Rickman April 10 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 96 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning ?End of April Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 97 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge (_fragment_) Sept. 8 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 98 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Sept. 24 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 99 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Oct. 9 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 100 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Oct. 11 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 101 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge (_fragment_) Oct. 23 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 102 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Nov. 4 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 103 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Nov. Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) and Talfourd, with alterations. 1803. 104 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Feb. 19 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_The Lambs_) with alterations. 105 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning March Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 106 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth March 5 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 107 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge April 13 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 108 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge May Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 109 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge May 27 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 110 Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth. July 9 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 111 Charles Lamb to John Rickman July 16 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 112 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart Sept. 21 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary And Charles Lamb_). 113 Charles Lamb to William Godwin Nov. 8 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 114 Charles Lamb to William Godwin Nov. 10 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 1804. 115 Charles Lamb to Thomas Poole. Feb. 14 From original in British Museum. 116 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge March 10 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 117 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart ?March Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 118 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge April 5 From the original (Morrison Collection). 119 Charles Lamb to Thomas Poole May 4 From original in British Museum. 120 Charles Lamb to Thomas Poole May 5 From original in British Museum. 121 Charles Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth June 2 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 122 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart } 123 Charles Lamb to Sarah Stoddart } Late July Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 124 Part I., Charles Lamb to William } Wordsworth } 125 Part II., Mary Lamb to Dorothy } Wordsworth } Oct. 13 126 Part III., Mary Lamb to Mrs. S.T. } Coleridge } From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 127 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Nov. 7 1805. 128 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Feb. 18 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 129 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Feb. 19 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 130 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Feb. 23 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 131 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth March 5 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 132 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth March 21 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 133 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth April 5 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 134 Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth May 7 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 135 Charles Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth June 14 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 136 Charles Lamb to Thomas manning July 27 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 137 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart ?Sept. 18 From the original. 138 Charles Lamb to William and Dorothy Wordsworth Sept. 28 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 139 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart Early Nov. Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 140 Charles Lamb to William Hazlitt Nov. 10 From the original. 141 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart Nov. 9 and 14 From the original. 142 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Nov. 15 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 1806. 143 Charles Lamb to William Hazlitt Jan. 15 From the original. 144 Charles Lamb to John Rickman. Jan. 25 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 145 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Feb. 1 From the original, recently in the possession of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth. 146 Charles Lamb to William Hazlitt Feb. 19 From the original. 147 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart Feb. 20, 21 and 22 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 148 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart March Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 149 Charles Lamb to John Rickman March Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 150 Charles Lamb to William Hazlitt March 15 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 151 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning May 10 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_The Lambs_). 152 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart June 2 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 153 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth June 26 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 154 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart ?July 4 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 155 Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth Aug. 29 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 156 Mary Lamb to S. T. Coleridge. No date From the original (Morrison Collection). 157 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart Oct. 23 From the original. 158 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Dec. 5 From the original. 159 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Dec. 11 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 160 Charles Lamb to Sarah Stoddart Dec. 11 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 161 Charles Lamb to William Godwin No date Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 1807. 162 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Jan. 29 From the original in Dr. Williams' Library. 163 Charles Lamb to T. and C. Clarkson June From the original in the possession of Mr. A.M.S. Emthuen. 164 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart Oct. Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 165 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart Dec. 21 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 1808. 166 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddard Feb. 12 From the original. 167 Charles Lamb to the Rev. W. Hazlitt Feb. 18 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 168 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Feb. 26 From the original. 169 Charles lamb to Matilda Betham No date From _A House of Letters_. 170 Charles Lamb to Matilda Betham No date From _A House of Letters_. 171 Charles Lamb to William Godwin March 11 Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin His Friends_, etc.). 172 Charles Lamb to Henry Crabb Robinson March 12 From the original in Dr. Williams' Library 173 Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart March 16 From the original. 174 Charles Lamb to George Dyer Dec. 5 From _The Mirror_. 175 Mary Lamb to Sarah Hazlitt } 176 Charles Lamb to Sarah Hazlitt } Dec. 10 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 177 Mary Lamb to Mrs. Clarkson } Dec. 10 178 Charles Lamb to Mrs. Clarkson } from the original in the possession of Mr. A.M.S. Methuen. 1809. 179 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning March 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations 180 Charles Lamb to Henry Crabb Robinson May From the original in Dr. Williams' Library 181 Mary Lamb to Sarah Hazlitt June 2 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 182 Charles Lamb to S.T. Coleridge June 7 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 183 Charles Lamb to S.T. Coleridge Oct. 30 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 184 Mary Lamb to Sarah Hazlitt Nov. 7 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 1810. 185 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Jan. 2 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 186 Charles Lamb to Henry Crabb Robinson Feb. 7 From the original in Dr. Williams' Library. 187 Charles Lamb to the J.M. Gutch April 9 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 188 Charles Lamb to Basil Montagu July 12 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 189 Charles Lamb to William Hazlitt Aug. 9 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 190 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Oct. 19 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 191 Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth } 192 Charles Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth } Nov. 13 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. } 193 Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth } 194 Charles Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth } Nov. 23 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. } 195 Charles Lamb to William Hazlitt Nov. 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 196 Charles Lamb to William Godwin No date Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 197 Mary Lamb to Sarah Hazlitt ? End of year Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles Lamb_). 1811. 198 Mary Lamb to Matilda Betham No date Mr. Hazlitt's text (_The Lambs_). 199 Charles Lamb to John Morgan (_fragment_) March 8 From the original (Duchess of Albany) 200 Mary Lamb to Sarah Hazlitt } 201 Charles Lamb to William Hazlitt } Oct. 2 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_Mary and Charles } Lamb_) and Bohn. 1812. 202 Charles Lamb to John Dyer Collier No date J. P. Collier's text (_An Old Man's Diary_). 203 Mary Lamb to Mrs. John Dyer Collier No date J. P. Collier's text (_An Old Man's Diary_). [1813--_no letters_.] 1814. 204 Charles Lamb to John Scott ?Feb. From facsimile (Birkbeck Hill's _Talks about Autographs_). 205 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Aug. 9 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 206 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Aug. 13 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 207 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Aug. 26 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 208 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Sept. 19 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 209 Mary Lamb to Barbara Betham Nov. 2 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_The Lambs_). 210 Charles Lamb to John Scott Dec. 12 From Mr. R. B. Adam's original. 211 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Dec. 28 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 1815. 212 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth ?Early Jan. From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 213 Charles Lamb to Mr. Sargus Feb. 23 From the original in the possession of Mr. Thomas Greg. 214 Charles Lamb to Joseph Hume No date Mr. Kegan Paul's text (_William Godwin: His Friends_, etc.). 215 Charles Lamb to [Mrs. Hume?] No date From the American owner. 216 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth April 7 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 217 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth April 28 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 218 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey May 6 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 219 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Aug. 9 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 220 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Aug. 9 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 221 Mary Lamb to Sarah Hutchinson Aug. 20 222 Charles Lamb to Sarah Hutchinson Aug. 20 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 223 Mary Lamb to Matilda Betham ?Late summer From _Fraser's Magazine_. 224 Charles Lamb to Matilda Betham No date From _A House of Letters_. 225 Charles Lamb to Matilda Betham No date Mr. Hazlitt's text (_The Lambs_). 226 Charles Lamb to Sarah Hutchinson Oct. 19 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 227 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Dec. 25 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 228 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning Dec. 26 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 1816. 229 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth April 9 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 230 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth April 26 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 231 Charles Lamb to Matilda Betham June 1 From _Fraser's Magazine_. 232 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth Sept. 23 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 233 Mary Lamb to Sarah Hutchinson Middle of Nov. From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 234 Mary Lamb to Sarah Hutchinson Late in year From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 1817. 235 Charles Lamb to William Ayrton May 12 From Ayrton's transcript in Lamb's _Works_, Vol. III. 236 Charles Lamb to Barren Field Aug. 31 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 237 Charles Lamb to James and Louisa Kenney Oct. Text from Mr. Samuel Davey. 238 Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth Nov. 21 239 Charles Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth Nov. 21 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 240 Charles Lamb to John Payne Collier. Dec. 10 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 241 Charles Lamb to Benjamin Robert Haydon Dec. 26 From Tom Taylor's _Life of Haydon_. 1818. 242 Charles Lamb to Mrs. William Wordsworth Feb. 18 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 243 Charles Lamb to Charles and James Ollier June 18 From the original (Morrison Collection). 244 Charles Lamb to Robert Southey Oct. 26 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 245 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Dec. 24 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). 1819. 246 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth April 26 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 247 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning May 28 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 248 Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth June 7 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 249 Charles Lamb to Fanny Kelly July 20 Mr. John Hollingshead's text (_Harper's Magazine_). 250 Charles Lamb to Fanny Kelly July 20 John Hollingshead's text (_Harper's Magazine_). 251 Charles Lamb to Thomas Noon Talfourd(?) August (Original in the possession of the Master of Magdelene.) 252 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge ?Summer From the original (Morrison Collection). 253 Charles Lamb to Thomas Holcroft, Jr. Autumn From the original (Morrison Collection). 254 Charles Lamb to Joseph Cottle Nov. 5 Mr. Hazlitt's text. 255 Charles Lamb to Joseph Cottle (_incomplete_) Late in year Mr. Hazlitt's text. 256 Charles Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth Nov. 25 From Mr. Gordon Wordsworth's original. 1820. 257 Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge Jan. 10 Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn) with alterations. 258 Mary Lamb to Mrs. Vincent Novello Spring From the Cowden Clarkes' _Recollections of Writers_. 259 Charles Lamb to Joseph Cottle May 26 Mr. Hazlitt's text. 260 Charles Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth May 25 From Professor Knight's _Life of Wordsworth_. 261 Charles Lamb to Thomas Allsop July 13 262 Charles and Mary Lamb to Samuel James Arnold No date 263 Charles Lamb to Barron Field Aug. 16 Mr. Hazlitt's text (_The Lambs_). 263A Charles Lamb to S. T. Coleridge ?Autumn Mr. Hazlitt's text (Bohn). APPENDIX Coleridge's "Ode on the Departing Year" Wither's "Supersedeas" Dyer's "Poetic Sympathies" (_fragment_) Haydon's Party (from Taylor's _Life of Haydon_) FRONTISPIECE CHARLES LAMB (AGED 44) From a Water-colour Drawing by J. G. F. Joseph. THE LETTERS OF CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 1796-1820 LETTER 1 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Postmark May 27, 1796.] DEAR C---- make yourself perfectly easy about May. I paid his bill, when I sent your clothes. I was flush of money, and am so still to all the purposes of a single life, so give yourself no further concern about it. The money would be superfluous to me, if I had it. With regard to Allen,--the woman he has married has some money, I have heard about L200 a year, enough for the maintenance of herself & children, one of whom is a girl nine years old! so Allen has dipt betimes into the cares of a family. I very seldom see him, & do not know whether he has given up the Westminster hospital. When Southey becomes as modest as his predecessor Milton, and publishes his Epics in duodecimo, I will read 'em,--a Guinea a book is somewhat exorbitant, nor have I the opportunity of borrowing the Work. The extracts from it in the Monthly Review and the short passages in your Watchman seem to me much superior to any thing in his partnership account with Lovell. Your poems I shall procure forthwith. There were noble lines in what you inserted in one of your Numbers from Religious Musings, but I thought them elaborate. I am somewhat glad you have given up that Paper--it must have been dry, unprofitable, and of "dissonant mood" to your disposition. I wish you success in all your undertakings, and am glad to hear you are employed about the Evidences of Religion. There is need of multiplying such books an hundred fold in this philosophical age to _prevent_ converts to Atheism, for they seem too tough disputants to meddle with afterwards. I am sincerely sorry for Allen, as a family man particularly. Le Grice is gone to make puns in Cornwall. He has got a tutorship to a young boy, living with his Mother, a widow Lady. He will of course initiate him quickly in "whatsoever things are lovely, honorable, and of good report." He has cut Miss Hunt compleatly,--the poor Girl is very ill on the Occasion, but he laughs at it, and justifies himself by saying, "she does not see him laugh." Coleridge, I know not what suffering scenes you have gone through at Bristol--my life has been somewhat diversified of late. The 6 weeks that finished last year and began this your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a mad house at Hoxton--I am got somewhat rational now, and don't bite any one. But mad I was--and many a vagary my imagination played with me, enough to make a volume if all told. My Sonnets I have extended to the number of nine since I saw you, and will some day communicate to you. I am beginning a poem in blank verse, which if I finish I publish. White is on the eve of publishing (he took the hint from Vortigern) Original letters of Falstaff, Shallow &c--, a copy you shall have when it comes out. They are without exception the best imitations I ever saw. Coleridge, it may convince you of my regards for you when I tell you my head ran on you in my madness, as much almost as on another Person, who I am inclined to think was the more immediate cause of my temporary frenzy. The sonnet I send you has small merit as poetry but you will be curious to read it when I tell you it was written in my prison-house in one of my lucid Intervals. TO MY SISTER If from my lips some angry accents fell, Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind, And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, And waters clear, of Reason; and for me, Let this my verse the poor atonement be, My verse, which thou to praise wast ever inclined Too highly, and with a partial eye to see No blemish: thou to me didst ever shew Fondest affection, and woud'st oftimes lend An ear to the desponding love sick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend. With these lines, and with that sister's kindest remembrances to C----, I conclude-- Yours sincerely LAMB. Your Conciones ad populum are the most eloquent politics that ever came in my way. Write, when convenient--not as a task, for there is nothing in this letter to answer. You may inclose under cover to me at the India house what letters you please, for they come post free. We cannot send our remembrances to Mrs. C---- not having seen her, but believe me our best good wishes attend you both. My civic and poetic compts to Southey if at Bristol.--Why, he is a very Leviathan of Bards--the small minnow I-- [This is the earliest letter of Lamb's that has come down to us. On February 10, 1796, he was just twenty-one years old, and was now living at 7 Little Queen Street (since demolished) with his father, mother, Aunt Sarah Lamb (known as Aunt Hetty), Mary Lamb and, possibly, John Lamb. John Lamb, senior, was doing nothing and had, I think, already begun to break up: his old master, Samuel Salt, had died in February, 1792. John Lamb, the son (born June 5, 1763), had a clerkship at the South-Sea House; Charles Lamb had begun his long period of service in the India House; and Mary Lamb (born December 3, 1764) was occupied as a mantua-maker. At this time Coleridge was twenty-three; he would be twenty-four on October 21. His military experiences over, he had married Sara Fricker on October 4, 1795 (a month before Southey married her sister Edith), and was living at Bristol, on Redcliffe Hill. The first number of _The Watchman_ was dated on March 1, 1796; on May 13, 1796, it came to an end. On April 16, 1796, Cottle had issued Coleridge's _Poems on Various Subjects_, containing also four "effusions" by Charles Lamb (Nos. VII., XI., XII. and XIII.), and the "Religious Musings." Southey, on bad terms with Coleridge, partly on account of Southey's abandonment of Pantisocracy, was in Lisbon. His _Joan of Arc_ had just been published by Cottle in quarto at a guinea. Previously he had collaborated in _The Fall of Robespierre_, 1794, with Coleridge and Robert Lovell. Each, one evening, had set forth to write an act by the next. Southey and Lovell did so, but Coleridge brought only a part of his. Lovell's being useless, Southey rewrote his act, Coleridge finished his at leisure, and the result was published. Robert Lovell (1770?-1796) had also been associated with Coleridge and Southey in Pantisocracy and was their brother-in-law, having married Mary Fricker, another of the sisters. When, in 1795, Southey and Lovell had published a joint volume of _Poems_, Southey took the pseudonym of Bion and Lovell of Moschus. May was probably the landlord of the Salutation and Cat. The London Directory for 1808 has "William May, Salutation Coffee House, 17 Newgate Street." We must suppose that when Coleridge quitted the Salutation and Cat in January, 1795, he was unable to pay his bill, and therefore had to leave his luggage behind. Cottle's story of Coleridge being offered free lodging by a London inn-keeper, if he would only talk and talk, must then either be a pretty invention or apply to another landlord, possibly the host of the Angel in Butcher Hall Street. Allen was Robert Allen, a schoolfellow of Lamb and Coleridge, and Coleridge's first friend. He was born on October 18, 1772. Both Lamb and Leigh Hunt tell good stories of him at Christ's Hospital, Lamb in _Elia_ and Hunt in his _Autobiography_. From Christ's Hospital he went to University College, Oxford, and it was he who introduced Coleridge and Hucks to Southey in 1794. Probably, says Mr. E. H. Coleridge, it was he who brought Coleridge and John Stoddart (afterwards Sir John, and Hazlitt's brother-in-law) together. On leaving Oxford he seems to have gone to Westminster to learn surgery, and in 1797 he was appointed Deputy-Surgeon to the 2nd Royals, then in Portugal. He married a widow with children; at some time later took to journalism, as Lamb's reference in the _Elia_ essay on "Newspapers" tells us; and he died of apoplexy in 1805. Coleridge's employment on the _Evidences of Religion_, whatever it may have been, did not reach print. Le Grice was Charles Valentine Le Grice (1773-1858), an old Christ's Hospitaller and Grecian (see Lamb's _Elia_ essays on "Christ's Hospital" and "Grace before Meat"). Le Grice passed to Trinity College, Cambridge. He left in 1796 and became tutor to William John Godolphin Nicholls of Trereife, near Penzance, the only son of a widowed mother. Le Grice was ordained in 1798 and married Mrs. Nicholls in 1799. Young Nicholls died in 1815 and Mrs. Le Grice in 1821, when Le Grice became sole owner of the Trereife property. He was incumbent of St. Mary's, Penzance, for some years. Le Grice was a witty, rebellious character, but he never fulfilled the promise of his early days. It has been conjectured that his skill in punning awakened Lamb's ambition in that direction. Le Grice saw Lamb next in 1834, at the Bell at Edmonton. His recollections of Lamb were included by Talfourd in the _Memorials_, and his recollections of Coleridge were printed in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, December, 1834. I know nothing of Miss Hunt. Of Lamb's confinement in a madhouse we know no more than is here told. It is conjectured that the "other person" to whom Lamb refers a few lines later was Ann Simmons, a girl at Widford for whom he had an attachment that had been discouraged, if not forbidden, by her friends. This is the only attack of the kind that Lamb is known to have suffered. He once told Coleridge that during his illness he had sometimes believed himself to be Young Norval in Home's "Douglas." The poem in blank verse was, we learn in a subsequent letter, "The Grandame," or possibly an autobiographical work of which "The Grandame" is the only portion that survived. White was James White (1775-1820), an old Christ's Hospitaller and a friend and almost exact contemporary of Lamb. Lamb, who first kindled his enthusiasm for Shakespeare, was, I think, to some extent involved in the _Original Letters, &c., of Sir John Falstaff and his Friends_, which appeared in 1796. The dedication--to Master Samuel Irelaunde, meaning William Henry Ireland (who sometimes took his father's name Samuel), the forger of the pretended Shakespearian play "Vortigern," produced at Drury Lane earlier in the year--is quite in Lamb's manner. White's immortality, however, rests not upon this book, but upon his portrait in the _Elia_ essay on "Chimney-Sweepers." The sonnet "To my Sister" was printed, with slight alterations, by Lamb in Coleridge's _Poems_, second edition, 1797, and again in Lamb's _Works_, 1818. Coleridge's _Condones ad Populum; or, Addresses to the People_, had been published at Bristol in November, 1795.] LETTER 2 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Probably begun either on Tuesday, May 24, or Tuesday, May 31, 1796. Postmark? June 1.] I am in such violent pain with the head ach that I am fit for nothing but transcribing, scarce for that. When I get your poems, and the Joan of Arc, I will exercise my presumption in giving you my opinion of 'em. The mail does not come in before tomorrow (Wednesday) morning. The following sonnet was composed during a walk down into Hertfordshire early in last Summer. The lord of light shakes off his drowsyhed.[*] Fresh from his couch up springs the lusty Sun, And girds himself his mighty race to run. Meantime, by truant love of rambling led, I turn my back on thy detested walls, Proud City, and thy sons I leave behind, A selfish, sordid, money-getting kind, Who shut their ears when holy Freedom calls. I pass not thee so lightly, humble spire, That mindest me of many a pleasure gone, Of merriest days, of love and Islington, Kindling anew the flames of past desire; And I shall muse on thee, slow journeying on, To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire. [Footnote: Drowsyhed I have met with I think in Spencer. Tis an old thing, but it rhymes with led & rhyming covers a multitude of licences.] The last line is a copy of Bowles's, "to the green hamlet in the peaceful plain." Your ears are not so very fastidious--many people would not like words so prosaic and familiar in a sonnet as Islington and Hertfordshire. The next was written within a day or two of the last, on revisiting a spot where the scene was laid of my 1st sonnet that "mock'd my step with many a lonely glade." When last I roved these winding wood-walks green, Green winding walks, and pathways shady-sweet, Oftimes would Anna seek the silent scene, Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. No more I hear her footsteps in the shade; Her image only in these pleasant ways Meets me self-wandring where in better days I held free converse with my fair-hair'd maid. I pass'd the little cottage, which she loved, The cottage which did once my all contain: it spake of days that ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart and much my heart was moved. "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid," said I, And from the cottage turn'd me, with a sigh. The next retains a few lines from a sonnet of mine, which you once remarked had no "body of thought" in it. I agree with you, but have preserved a part of it, and it runs thus. I flatter myself you will like it. A timid grace sits trembling in her Eye, As both to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivious extacy The care-craz'd mind, like some still melody; Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite, peace and meek quietness, And innocent loves,[*] and maiden purity. A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him, who hates his brethren of mankind. Turned are those beams from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. [Footnote: Cowley uses this phrase with a somewhat different meaning: I meant loves of relatives friends &c.] The next and last I value most of all. 'Twas composed close upon the heels of the last in that very wood I had in mind when I wrote "Methinks how dainty sweet." We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, The youngest and the loveliest far, I ween, And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been, We two did love each other's company; Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. But when, with shew of seeming good beguil'd, I left the garb and manners of a child, And my first love for man's society, Defiling with the world my virgin heart, My loved companion dropt a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved, who can tell me where Thou art, In what delicious Eden to be found, That I may seek thee the wide world around. Since writing it, I have found in a poem by Hamilton of Bangour, these 2 lines to happiness Nun sober and devout, where art thou fled To hide in shades thy meek contented head. Lines eminently beautiful, but I do not remember having re'd 'em previously, for the credit of my 10th and 11th lines. Parnell has 2 lines (which probably suggested the _above_) to Contentment Whither ah! whither art thou fled, To hide thy meek contented head.[*] [Footnote: an odd epithet for contentment in a poet so poetical as Parnell.] Cowley's exquisite Elegy on the death of his friend Harvey suggested the phrase of "we two" "Was there a tree that did not know The love betwixt us two?----" So much for acknowledged plagiarisms, the confession of which I know not whether it has more of vanity or modesty in it. As to my blank verse I am so dismally slow and sterile of ideas (I speak from my heart) that I much question if it will ever come to any issue. I have hitherto only hammered out a few indepen[den]t unconnected snatches, not in a capacity to be sent. I am very ill, and will rest till I have read your poems--for which I am very thankful. I have one more favour to beg of you, that you never mention Mr. May's affair in any sort, much less _think_ of repaying. Are we not flocci-nauci-what-d'ye-call-em-ists? We have just learnd, that my poor brother has had a sad accident: a large stone blown down by yesterday's high wind has bruised his leg in a most shocking manner--he is under the care of Cruikshanks. Coleridge, there are 10,000 objections against my paying you a visit at Bristol--it cannot be, else--but in this world 'tis better not to think too much of pleasant possibles, that we may not be out of humour with present insipids. Should any thing bring you to London, you will recollect No. 7, Little Queen St. Holborn. I shall be too ill to call on Wordsworth myself but will take care to transmit him his poem, when I have read it. I saw Le Grice the day before his departure, and mentioned incidentally his "teaching the young idea how to shoot"--knowing him and the probability there is of people having a propensity to pun in his company you will not wonder that we both stumbled on the same pun at once, he eagerly anticipating me,--"he would teach him to shoot!"--Poor Le Grice! if wit alone could entitle a man to respect, &c. He has written a very witty little pamphlet lately, satirical upon college declamations; when I send White's book, I will add that. I am sorry there should be any difference between you and Southey. "Between you two there should be peace," tho' I must say I have borne him no good will since he spirited you away from among us. What is become of Moschus? You sported some of his sublimities, I see, in your Watchman. Very decent things. So much for to night from your afflicted headachey sorethroatey, humble Servant C. Lamb------Tuesday night---------. Of your Watchmen, the Review of Burke was the best prose. I augurd great things from the 1st number. There is some exquisite poetry interspersed. I have re-read the extract from the Religious musings and retract whatever invidious there was in my censure of it as elaborate. There are times when one is not in a disposition thoroughly to relish good writing. I have re-read it in a more favourable moment and hesitate not to pronounce it sublime. If there be any thing in it approachs to tumidity (which I meant not to infer in elaborate: I meant simply labored) it is the Gigantic hyperbole by which you describe the Evils of existing society. Snakes, Lions, hyenas and behemoths, is carrying your resentment beyond bounds. The pictures of the Simoom, of frenzy and ruin, of the whore of Babylon and the cry of the foul spirits disherited of Earth and the strange beatitude which the good man shall recognise in heaven--as well as the particularizing of the children of wretchedness-- (I have unconsciously included every part of it) form a variety of uniform excellence. I hunger and thirst to read the poem complete. That is a capital line in your 6th no.: "this dark freeze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month"--they are exactly such epithets as Burns would have stumbled on, whose poem on the ploughd up daisy you seem to have had in mind. Your complaint that [of] your readers some thought there was too much, some too little, original matter in your Nos., reminds me of poor dead Parsons in the Critic--"too little incident! Give me leave to tell you, Sir, there is too much incident." I had like to have forgot thanking you for that exquisite little morsel the 1st Sclavonian Song. The expression in the 2d "more happy to be unhappy in hell"--is it not very quaint? Accept my thanks in common with those of all who love good poetry for the Braes of Yarrow. I congratulate you on the enemies you must have made by your splendid invective against the barterers in "human flesh and sinews." Coleridge, you will rejoice to hear that Cowper is recovered from his lunacy, and is employ'd on his translation of the Italian &c. poems of Milton, for an edition where Fuseli presides as designer. Coleridge, to an idler like myself to write and receive letters are both very pleasant, but I wish not to break in upon your valuable time by expecting to hear very frequently from you. Reserve that obligation for your moments of lassitude, when you have nothing else to do; for your loco-restive and all your idle propensities of course have given way to the duties of providing for a family. The mail is come in but no parcel, yet this is Tuesday. Farewell then till to morrow, for a nich and a nook I must leave for criticisms. By the way I hope you do not send your own only copy of Joan of Arc; I will in that case return it immediately. Your parcel _is_ come, you have been _lavish_ of your presents. Wordsworth's poem I have hurried thro not without delight. Poor Lovell! my heart almost accuses me for the light manner I spoke of him above, not dreaming of his death. My heart bleeds for your accumulated troubles, God send you thro' 'em with patience. I conjure you dream not that I will ever think of being repaid! the very word is galling to the ears. I have read all your Rel. Musings with uninterrupted feelings of profound admiration. You may safely rest your fame on it. The best remain'g things are what I have before read, and they lose nothing by my recollection of your manner of reciting 'em, for I too bear in mind "the voice, the look" of absent friends, and can occasionally mimic their manner for the amusement of those who have seen 'em. Your impassioned manner of recitation I can recall at any time to mine own heart, and to the ears of the bystanders. I rather wish you had left the monody on C. concluding as it did abruptly. It had more of unity.--The conclusion of your R Musings I fear will entitle you to the reproof of your Beloved woman, who wisely will not suffer your fancy to run riot, but bids you walk humbly with your God. The very last words "I exercise my young noviciate tho't in ministeries of heart-stirring song," tho' not now new to me, cannot be enough admired. To speak politely, they are a well turnd compliment to Poetry. I hasten to read Joan of Arc, &c. I have read your lines at the begin'g of 2d book, they are worthy of Milton, but in my mind yield to your Rel Mus'gs. I shall read the whole carefully and in some future letter take the liberty to particularize my opinions of it. Of what is new to me among your poems next to the Musings, that beginning "My Pensive Sara" gave me most pleasure: the lines in it I just alluded to are most exquisite--they made my sister and self smile, as conveying a pleasing picture of Mrs. C. chequing your wild wandrings, which we were so fond of hearing you indulge when among us. It has endeared us more than any thing to your good Lady; and your own self-reproof that follows delighted us. 'Tis a charming poem throughout. (You have well remarked that "charming, admirable, exquisite" are words expressive of feelings, more than conveying of ideas, else I might plead very well want of room in my paper as excuse for generalizing.) I want room to tell you how we are charmed with your verses in the manner of Spencer, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. I am glad you resume the Watchman--change the name, leave out all articles of News, and whatever things are peculiar to News Papers, and confine yourself to Ethics, verse, criticism, or, rather do not confine yourself. Let your plan be as diffuse as the Spectator, and I'll answer for it the work prospers. If I am vain enough to think I can be a contributor, rely on my inclinations. Coleridge, in reading your R. Musings I felt a transient superiority over you: I _have_ seen Priestly. I love to see his name repeated in your writings. I love and honor him almost profanely. You would be charmed with his _sermons_, if you never read 'em.--You have doubtless read his books, illustrative of the doctrine of Necessity. Prefixed to a late work of his, in answer to Paine, there is a preface, given [?giving] an account of the Man and his services to Men, written by Lindsey, his dearest friend,--well worth your reading. Tuesday Eve.--Forgive my prolixity, which is yet too brief for all I could wish to say.--God give you comfort and all that are of your household.--Our loves and best good wishes to Mrs. C. C. LAMB. [The postmark of this letter looks like June 1, but it might be June 7, It was odd to date it "Tuesday night" half way through, and "Tuesday eve" at the end. Possibly Lamb began it on Tuesday, May 24, and finished it on Tuesday, May 31; possibly he began it on Tuesday, May 31, and finished it and posted it on Tuesday, June 7. The Hertfordshire sonnet was printed in the _Monthly Magazine_ for December, 1797, and not reprinted by Lamb. The sonnet that "mock'd my step with many a lonely glade" is that beginning-- Was it some sweet device of Faery, which had been printed in Coleridge's _Poems_, 1796. The second, third and fourth of the sonnets that are copied in this letter were printed in the second edition of Coleridge's _Poems_, 1797. Anna is generally supposed to be Ann Simmons, referred to in the previous note. Concerning "Flocci-nauci-what-d'ye-call-'em-ists," Canon Ainger has the following interesting note: "'Flocci, nauci' is the beginning of a rule in the old Latin grammars, containing a list of words signifying 'of no account,' _floccus_ being a lock of wool, and _naucus_ a trifle. Lamb was recalling a sentence in one of Shenstone's Letters:--'I loved him for nothing so much as his flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication of money.'" But "Pantisocratists" was, of course, the word that Lamb was shadowing. Pantisocracy, however--the new order of common living and high thinking, to be established on the banks of the Susquehanna by Coleridge, Southey, Favell, Burnett and others--was already dead. William Cumberland Cruikshank, the anatomist, who attended Lamb's brother, had attended Dr. Johnson in his last illness. Le Grice's pamphlet was _A General Theorem for A******* Coll. Declamation_, by Gronovius, 1796. Southey and Coleridge had been on somewhat strained terms for some time; possibly, as I have said in the previous note, owing to Southey's abandonment of Pantisocratic fervour, which anticipated Coleridge's by some months. Also, to marry sisters does not always lead to serenity. The spiriting away of Coleridge had been effected by Southey in January, 1795, when he found Coleridge at the Angel in Butcher Hall Street (_vice_ the Salutation in Newgate Street) and bore him back to Bristol and the forlorn Sara Fricker, and away from Lamb, journalism and egg-hot. Moschus was, as we have seen, Robert Lovell. No. V. of _The Watchman_ contained sonnets by him. The review of Burke's _Letter to a Noble Lord_ was in No. I. of _The Watchman._--The passage from "Religious Musings," under the title "The Present State of Society," was in No. II.--extending from line 260 to 357. [These lines were 279-378 1st ed.; 264-363 2nd ed.] The capital line in No. VI. is in the poem, "Lines on Observing a Blossom on the First of February, 1796."--Poor dead Parsons would be William Parsons (1736-1795), the original Sir Fretful Plagiary in Sheridan's "Critic." Lamb praises him in his essay on the Artificial Comedy.--In No. IX. of _The Watchman_ were prose paraphrases of three Sclavonian songs, the first being "Song of a Female Orphan," and the second, "Song of the Haymakers."--John Logan's "Braes of Yarrow" had been quoted in No. III. as "the most exquisite performance in our language."--The invective against "the barterers" refers to the denunciation of the slave trade in No. IV. of _The Watchman_. Cowper's recovery was only partial; and he was never rightly himself after 1793. The edition of Milton had been begun about 1790. It was never finished as originally intended; but Fuseli completed forty pictures, which were exhibited in 1799. An edition of Cowper's translations, with designs by Flaxman, was published in 1808, and of Cowper's complete Milton in 1810. Wordsworth's poem would be "Guilt and Sorrow," of which a portion was printed in _Lyrical Ballads,_ 1798, and the whole published in 1842. Coleridge's "Monody on Chatterton," the first poem in his _Poems on Various Subjects_, 1796, had been written originally at Christ's Hospital, 1790: it continued to be much altered before the final version. The two lines from "Religious Musings" are not the last, but the beginning of the last passage. Coleridge contributed between three and four hundred lines to Book II. of Southey's _Joan of Arc_, as we shall see later. The poem beginning "My Pensive Sara" was Effusion 35, afterwards called "The AEolian Harp," and the lines to which Lamb refers are these, following upon Coleridge's description of how flitting phantasies traverse his indolent and passive brain:-- But thy more serious eye a mild reproof Darts, O beloved Woman! nor such thoughts Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject, And biddest me walk humbly with my God. The plan to resume _The Watchman_ did not come to anything. Joseph Priestley (1733-1804), the theologian, at this time the object of Lamb's adoration, was one of the fathers of Unitarianism, a creed in which Lamb had been brought up under the influence of his Aunt Hetty. Coleridge, as a supporter of one of Priestley's allies, William Frend of Cambridge, and as a convinced Unitarian, was also an admirer of Priestley, concerning whom and the Birmingham riots of 1791 is a fine passage in "Religious Musings," while one of the sonnets of the 1796 volume was addressed to him: circumstances which Lamb had in mind when mentioning him in this letter. Lamb had probably seen Priestley at the Gravel Pit Chapel, Hackney, where he became morning preacher in December, 1791, remaining there until March, 1794. Thenceforward he lived in America. His _Institutes of Natural and Revealed Religion_ appeared between 1772 and 1774. The other work referred to is _Letters to the Philosophers and Politicians of France_, newly edited by Theophilus Lindsey, the Unitarian, as _An Answer to Mr. Paine's "Age of Reason_," 1795.] LETTER 3 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE [Begun Wednesday, June 8. Dated on address: "Friday 10th June," 1796.] With Joan of Arc I have been delighted, amazed. I had not presumed to expect any thing of such excellence from Southey. Why the poem is alone sufficient to redeem the character of the age we live in from the imputation of degenerating in Poetry, were there no such beings extant as Burns and Bowles, Cowper and----fill up the blank how you please, I say nothing. The subject is well chosen. It opens well. To become more particular, I will notice in their order a few passages that chiefly struck me on perusal. Page 26 "Fierce and terrible Benevolence!" is a phrase full of grandeur and originality. The whole context made me feel _possess'd_, even like Joan herself. Page 28, "it is most horrible with the keen sword to gore the finely fibred human frame" and what follows pleased me mightily. In the 2d Book the first forty lines, in particular, are majestic and high-sounding. Indeed the whole vision of the palace of Ambition and what follows are supremely excellent. Your simile of the Laplander "by Niemi's lake Or Balda Zhiok, or the mossy stone Of Solfar Kapper"--will bear comparison with any in Milton for fullness of circumstance and lofty-pacedness of Versification. Southey's similes, tho' many of 'em are capital, are all inferior. In one of his books the simile of the Oak in the Storm occurs I think four times! To return, the light in which you view the heathen deities is accurate and beautiful. Southey's personifications in this book are so many fine and faultless pictures. I was much pleased with your manner of accounting for the reason why Monarchs take delight in War. At the 447th line you have placed Prophets and Enthusiasts cheek by jowl, on too intimate a footing for the dignity of the former. Necessarian-like-speaking it is correct. Page 98 "Dead is the Douglas, cold thy warrior frame, illustrious Buchan" &c are of kindred excellence with Gray's "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue" &c. How famously the Maid baffles the Doctors, Seraphic and Irrefragable, "with all their trumpery!" 126 page, the procession, the appearances of the Maid, of the Bastard son of Orleans and of Tremouille, are full of fire and fancy, and exquisite melody of versification. The personifications from line 303 to 309 in the heat of the battle had better been omitted, they are not very striking and only encumber. The converse which Joan and Conrade hold on the Banks of the Loire is altogether beautiful. Page 313, the conjecture that in Dreams "all things are that seem" is one of those conceits which the Poet delights to admit into his creed--a creed, by the way, more marvellous and mystic than ever Athanasius dream'd of. Page 315, I need only _mention_ those lines ending with "She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart"!!! They are good imitative lines "he toild and toild, of toil to reap no end, but endless toil and never ending woe." 347 page, Cruelty is such as Hogarth might have painted her. Page 361, all the passage about Love (where he seems to confound conjugal love with Creating and Preserving love) is very confused and sickens me with a load of useless personifications. Else that 9th Book is the finest in the volume, an exquisite combination of the ludicrous and the terrible,--I have never read either, even in translation, but such as I conceive to be the manner of Dante and Ariosto. The 10th book is the most languid. On the whole, considering the celerity wherewith the poem was finish'd, I was astonish'd at the infrequency of weak lines. I had expected to find it verbose. Joan, I think, does too little in Battle--Dunois, perhaps, the same--Conrade too much. The anecdotes interspersed among the battles refresh the mind very agreeably, and I am delighted with the very many passages of simple pathos abounding throughout the poem--passages which the author of "Crazy Kate" might have written. Has not Master Southey spoke very slightingly in his preface and disparagingly of Cowper's Homer?--what makes him reluctant to give Cowper his fame? And does not Southey use too often the expletives "did" and "does"? They have a good effect at times, but are too inconsiderable, or rather become blemishes, when they mark a style. On the whole, I expect Southey one day to rival Milton. I already deem him equal to Cowper, and superior to all living Poets besides. What says Coleridge? The "Monody on Henderson" is _immensely good_; the rest of that little volume is _readable and above mediocrity_. I proceed to a more pleasant task,--pleasant because the poems are yours, pleasant because you impose the task on me, and pleasant, let me add, because it will confer a whimsical importance on me to sit in judgment upon your rhimes. First tho', let me thank you again and again in my own and my sister's name for your invitations. Nothing could give us more pleasure than to come, but (were there no other reasons) while my Brother's leg is so bad it is out of the question. Poor fellow, he is very feverish and light headed, but Cruikshanks has pronounced the symptoms favorable, and gives us every hope that there will be no need of amputation. God send, not. We are necessarily confined with him the afternoon and evening till very late, so that I am stealing a few minutes to write to you. Thank you for your frequent letters, you are the only correspondent and I might add the only friend I have in the world. I go no where and have no acquaintance. Slow of speech, and reserved of manners, no one seeks or cares for my society and I am left alone. Allen calls only occasionally, as tho' it were a duty rather, and seldom stays ten minutes. Then judge how thankful I am for your letters. Do not, however, burthen yourself with the correspondence. I trouble you again so soon, only in obedience to your injunctions. Complaints apart, proceed we to our task. I am called away to tea, thence must wait upon my brother, so must delay till to-morrow. Farewell--Wednesday. Thursday. I will first notice what is new to me. 13th page. "The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul" is a nervous line, and the 6 first lines of page 14 are very pretty. The 21st effusion a perfect thing. That in the manner of Spencer is very sweet, particularly at the close. The 35th effusion is most exquisite--that line in particular, "And tranquil muse upon tranquillity." It is the very reflex pleasure that distinguishes the tranquillity of a thinking being from that of a shepherd--a modern one I would be understood to mean--a Dametas; one that keeps other people's sheep. Certainly, Coleridge, your letter from Shurton Bars has less merit than most things in your volume; personally, it may chime in best with your own feelings, and therefore you love it best. It has however great merit. In your 4th Epistle that is an exquisite paragraph and fancy-full of "A stream there is which rolls in lazy flow" &c. &c. "Murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmine bowers" is a sweet line and so are the 3 next. The concluding simile is far-fetch'd. "Tempest-honord" is a quaint-ish phrase. Of the Monody on H., I will here only notice these lines, as superlatively excellent. That energetic one, "Shall I not praise thee, Scholar, Christian, friend," like to that beautiful climax of Shakspeare "King, Hamlet, Royal Dane, Father." "Yet memory turns from little men to thee!" "and sported careless round their fellow child." The whole, I repeat it, is immensely good. Yours is a Poetical family. I was much surpriz'd and pleased to see the signature of Sara to that elegant composition, the 5th Epistle. I dare not _criticise_ the Relig Musings, I like not to _select_ any part where all is excellent. I can only admire; and thank you for it in the name of a Christian as well as a Lover of good Poetry. Only let me ask, is not that thought and those words in Young, "Stands in the Sun"? or is it only such as Young in one of his _better moments_ might have writ? "Believe, thou, O my Soul, Life is a vision, shadowy of truth, And vice and anguish and the wormy grave, Shapes of a dream!" I thank you for these lines, in the name of a Necessarian, and for what follows in next paragraph in the name of a child of fancy. After all you can[not] nor ever will write any thing, with which I shall be so delighted as what I have heard yourself repeat. You came to Town, and I saw you at a time when your heart was yet bleeding with recent wounds. Like yourself, I was sore galled with disappointed Hope. You had "many an holy lay, that mourning, soothed the mourner on his way." I had ears of sympathy to drink them in, and they yet vibrate pleasant on the sense. When I read in your little volume, your 19th Effusion, or the 28th or 29th, or what you call the "Sigh," I think I hear _you_ again. I image to myself the little smoky room at the Salutation and Cat, where we have sat together thro' the winter nights, beguiling the cares of life with Poesy. When you left London, I felt a dismal void in my heart, I found myself cut off at one and the same time from two most dear to me. "How blest with Ye the Path could I have trod of Quiet life." In your conversation you had blended so many pleasant fancies, that they cheated me of my grief. But in your absence, the tide of melancholy rushd in again, and did its worst Mischief by overwhelming my Reason. I have recoverd. But feel a stupor that makes me indifferent to the hopes and fears of this life. I sometimes wish to introduce a religious turn of mind, but habits are strong things, and my religious fervors are confined alas to some fleeting moments of occasional solitary devotion--A correspondence, opening with you, has roused me a little from my lethargy, and made me conscious of existence. Indulge me in it. I will not be very troublesome. At some future time I will amuse you with an account as full as my memory will permit of the strange turn my phrensy took. I look back upon it at times with a gloomy kind of Envy. For while it lasted I had many many hours of pure happiness. Dream not Coleridge, of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of Fancy, till you have gone mad. All now seems to me vapid; comparatively so. Excuse this selfish digression. Your monody is so superlatively excellent, that I can only wish it perfect, which I can't help feeling it is not quite. Indulge me in a few conjectures. What I am going to propose would make it more compress'd and I think more energic, tho' I am sensible at the expence of many beautiful lines. Let it begin "Is this the land of song-ennobled line," and proceed to "Otway's famish'd form." Then "Thee Chatterton," to "blaze of Seraphim." Then "clad in nature's rich array," to "orient day;" then "but soon the scathing lightning," to "blighted land." Then "Sublime of thought" to "his bosom glows." Then "but soon upon _his_ poor unsheltered head Did Penury her sickly Mildew shed, and soon are fled the charms of vernal Grace, and Joy's wild gleams that lightend o'er his face!" Then "Youth of tumultuous soul" to "sigh" as before. The rest may all stand down to "gaze upon the waves below." What follows now may come next, as detached verses, suggested by the Monody, rather than a part of it. They are indeed in themselves very sweet "And we at sober eve would round thee throng, Hanging enraptured on thy stately song"--in particular perhaps. If I am obscure you may understand me by counting lines. I have proposed omitting 24 lines. I feel that thus comprest it would gain energy, but think it most likely you will not agree with me, for who shall go about to bring opinions to the Bed of Procrustes and introduce among the Sons of Men a monotony of identical feelings. I only propose with diffidence. Reject, you, if you please, with as little remorse as you would the color of a coat or the pattern of a buckle where our fancies differ'd. The lines "Friend to the friendless" &c. which you may think "rudely disbranched" from the Chatterton will patch in with the Man of Ross, where they were once quite at Home, with 2 more which I recollect "and o'er the dowried virgin's snowy cheek bad bridal love suffuse his blushes meek!" very beautiful. The Pixies is a perfect thing, and so are the lines on the spring, page 28. The Epitaph on an Infant, like a Jack of lanthorn, has danced about (or like Dr. Forster's scholars) out of the Morn Chron into the Watchman, and thence back into your Collection. It is very pretty, and you seem to think so, but, may be o'er looked its chief merit, that of filling up a whole page. I had once deemd Sonnets of unrivalled use that way, but your epitaphs, I find, are the more diffuse. Edmund still holds its place among your best verses. "Ah! fair delights" to "roses round" in your Poem called Absence recall (none more forcibly) to my mind the tones in which _you recited it_. I will not notice in this tedious (to you) manner verses which have been so long delightful to me, and which you already know my opinion of. Of this kind are Bowles, Priestly, and that most exquisite and most Bowles-like of all, the 19th Effusion. It would have better ended with "agony of care." The last 2 lines are obvious and unnecessary and you need not now make 14 lines of it, now it is rechristend from a Sonnet to an Effusion. Schiller might have written the 20 Effusion. 'Tis worthy of him in any sense. I was glad to meet with those lines you sent me, when my Sister was so ill. I had lost the Copy, and I felt not a little proud at seeing my name in your verse. The complaint of Ninathoma (1st stanza in particular) is the best, or only good imitation, of Ossian I ever saw--your restless gale excepted. "To an infant" is most sweet--is not "foodful," tho', very harsh! would not "dulcet" fruit be less harsh, or some other friendly bi-syllable? In Edmund, "Frenzy fierce-eyed child," is not so well as frantic--tho' that is an epithet adding nothing to the meaning. Slander _couching_ was better than squatting. In the Man of Ross it _was_ a better line thus "If 'neath this roof thy wine-chear'd moments pass" than as it stands now. Time nor nothing can reconcile me to the concluding 5 lines of Kosciusko: call it any thing you will but sublime. In my 12th Effusion I had rather have seen what I wrote myself, tho' they bear no comparison with your exquisite lines "On rose-leaf'd beds amid your faery bowers," &c.--I love my sonnets because they are the reflected images of my own feelings at different times. To instance, in the 13th "How reason reel'd," &c.--are good lines but must spoil the whole with ME who know it is only a fiction of yours and that the rude dashings did in fact NOT ROCK me to REPOSE, I grant the same objection applies not to the former sonnet, but still I love my own feelings. They are dear to memory, tho' they now and then wake a sigh or a tear. "Thinking on divers things foredone," I charge you, Col., spare my ewe lambs, and tho' a Gentleman may borrow six lines in an epic poem (I should have no objection to borrow 500 and without acknowledging) still in a Sonnet--a personal poem--I do not "ask my friend the aiding verse." I would not wrong your feelings by proposing any improvements (did I think myself capable of suggesting 'em) in such personal poems as "Thou bleedest my poor heart"--'od so, I am catchd, I have already done it--but that simile I propose abridging would not change the feeling or introduce any alien ones. Do you understand me? In the 28th however, and in the "Sigh" and that composed at Clevedon, things that come from the heart direct, not by the medium of the fancy, I would not suggest an alteration. When my blank verse is finished, or any long fancy poems, "_propino tibi alterandum, cut-up-andum, abridg-andum_," just what you will with it--but spare my EWE LAMBS! That to Mrs. Siddons now you were welcome to improve, if it had been worth it. But I say unto you again, Col., spare my EWE LAMBS. I must confess were they mine I should omit, in Editione secunda, Effusions 2-3, because satiric, and below the dignity of the poet of Religious Musings, 5-7, half of the 8th, that written in early Youth, as far as "Thousand eyes,"--tho' I part not unreluctantly with that lively line "Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes" and one or 2 more just thereabouts. But I would substitute for it that sweet poem called "Recollection" in the 5th No. of the Watchman, better I think than the remainder of this poem, tho' not differing materially. As the poem now stands it looks altogether confused. And do not omit those lines upon the "early blossom," in your 6th No. of the Watchman, and I would omit the 10th Effusion--or what would do better, alter and improve the last 4 lines. In fact, I suppose if they were mine I should _not_ omit 'em. But your verse is for the most part so exquisite, that I like not to see aught of meaner matter mixed with it. Forgive my petulance and often, I fear, ill founded criticisms, and forgive me that I have, by this time, made your eyes and head ach with my long letter. But I cannot forego hastily the pleasure and pride of thus conversing with you. You did not tell me whether I was to include the Conciones ad Populum in my remarks on your poems. They are not unfrequently sublime, and I think you could not do better than to turn 'em into verse,--if you have nothing else to do. Allen I am sorry to say is a _confirmed_ Atheist. Stodart, or Stothard, a cold hearted well bred conceited disciple of Godwin, does him no good. His wife has several daughters (one of 'em as old as himself). Surely there is something unnatural in such a marriage. How I sympathise with you on the dull duty of a reviewer, and heartily damn with you Ned Evans and the Prosodist. I shall however wait impatiently for the articles in the Crit. Rev., next month, because they are _yours_. Young Evans (W. Evans, a branch of a family you were once so intimate with) is come into our office, and sends his love to you. Coleridge, I devoutly wish that Fortune, who has made sport with you so long, may play one freak more, throw you into London, or some spot near it, and there snug-ify you for life. 'Tis a selfish but natural wish for me, cast as I am "on life's wide plain, friend-less." Are you acquainted with Bowles? I see, by his last Elegy (written at Bath), you are near neighbours. "And I can think I can see the groves again--was it the voice of thee--Twas not the voice of thee, my buried friend--who dries with her dark locks the tender tear"--are touches as true to nature as any in his other Elegy, written at the hot wells, about poor Russell, &c.--You are doubtless acquainted with it.--Thursday. I do not know that I entirely agree with you in your stricture upon my Sonnet to Innocence. To men whose hearts are not quite deadened by their commerce with the world, Innocence (no longer familiar) becomes an awful idea. So I felt when I wrote it. Your other censures (qualified and sweeten'd, tho', with praises somewhat extravagant) I perfectly coincide with. Yet I chuse to retain the word "lunar"--indulge a "lunatic" in his loyalty to his mistress the moon. I have just been reading a most pathetic copy of verses on Sophia Pringle, who was hanged and burn'd for coining. One of the strokes of pathos (which are very many, all somewhat obscure) is "She lifted up her guilty forger to heaven." A note explains by forger her right hand with which she forged or coined the base metal! For pathos read bathos. You have put me out of conceit with my blank verse by your Religious Musings. I think it will come to nothing. I do not like 'em enough to send 'em. I have just been reading a book, which I may be too partial to, as it was the delight of my childhood; but I will recommend it to you--it is "Izaak Walton's Complete Angler!" All the scientific part you may omit in reading. The dialogue is very simple, full of pastoral beauties, and will charm you. Many pretty old verses are interspersed. This letter, which would be a week's work reading only, I do not wish you to answer in less than a month. I shall be richly content with a letter from you some day early in July--tho' if you get any how _settled_ before then pray let me know it immediately-- 'twould give me such satisfaction. Concerning the Unitarian chapel, the salary is the only scruple that the most rigid moralist would admit as valid. Concerning the tutorage--is not the salary low, and absence from your family unavoidable? London is the only fostering soil for Genius. Nothing more occurs just now, so I will leave you in mercy one small white spot empty below, to repose your eyes upon, fatigued as they must be with the wilderness of words they have by this time painfully travell'd thro'. God love you, Coleridge, and prosper you thro' life, tho' mine will be loss if your lot is to be cast at Bristol or at Nottingham or any where but London. Our loves to Mrs. C--. C. L. [Southey's _Joan of Arc_, with contributions to Book II. by Coleridge, had been published in quarto by Cottle. Coleridge contributed to Book II. the first 450 lines, with the exception of 141-143, 148-222, 266-272 and 286-291. He subsequently took out his lines and gave them new shape as the poem "The Destiny of Nations," printed in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817. All subsequent editions of Southey's poem appeared without Coleridge's portion. The passages on page 26 and page 28 were Southey's. Those at the beginning of the second book were Coleridge's. The simile of the Laplander may be read in "The Destiny of Nations" (lines 63-79). These were the reasons given by Coleridge for monarchs making war:-- When Luxury and Lust's exhausted stores No more can rouse the appetites of KINGS; When the low Flattery of their reptile Lords Falls flat and heavy on the accustomed ear; When Eunuchs sing, and Fools buffoon'ry make. And Dancers writhe their harlot limbs in vain: Then War and all its dread vicissitudes Pleasingly agitate their stagnant hearts.... The 447th line was Coleridge's. This is the passage:-- Whether thy LAW with unrefracted Ray Beam on the PROPHET'S purged Eye, or if Diseasing Realms the ENTHUSIAST, wild of thought, Scatter new frenzies on the infected Throng, THOU, Both inspiring and foredooming, Both Fit INSTRUMENTS and best of perfect END. With page 98 we come to Southey again, the remaining references being to him. The maid baffles the doctors in Book III.; page 126 is in Book IV.; the personifications are in Book VI.; the converse between Joan and Conrade is in Book IV.; page 313 is at the beginning of Book IX.; and pages 315, 347 and 361 are also in Book IX. Southey in the preface to _Joan of Arc_, speaking of Homer, says: "Pope has disguised him in fop-finery and Cowper has stripped him naked." "Crazy Kate" is an episode in _The Task_ ("The Sofa"). The "Monody on John Henderson," by Joseph Cottle, was printed anonymously in a volume of poems in 1795, and again in _The Malvern Hill_. John Henderson (1757-1788) was an eccentric scholar of Bristol. The lines praised by Lamb are the 4th, 12th and 14th. The poem must not be confused with the Monody on Henderson, the actor, by G. D. Harley. Lamb now turns again to Coleridge's _Poems_. The poem on the 13th and 14th pages of this little volume was "To the Rev. W. J. H." The 21st Effusion was that entitled "Composed while Climbing the Left Ascent of Brockley Coomb." The 35th Effusion is known as "The AEolian Harp." The letter from Shurton Bars is the poem beginning-- Nor travels my meand'ring eye. The 4th Epistle is that to Joseph Cottle, Coleridge's publisher and the author of the "Monody on Henderson," referred to in Coleridge's verses. The lines which Lamb quotes are Cottle's. The poem by Sara Coleridge is "The Silver Thimble." The passage in the "Religious Musings," for which Lamb is thankful as a "child of fancy," is the last paragraph:-- Contemplant Spirits! ye that hover o'er With untired gaze the immeasurable fount Ebullient with creative Deity! And ye of plastic power, that interfused Roll through the grosser and material mass In organising surge! Holies of God! (And what if Monads of the infinite mind?) I haply journeying my immortal course Shall sometime join your mystic choir! Till then I discipline my young noviciate thought In ministeries of heart-stirring song, And aye on Meditation's heaven-ward wing Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love, Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul As the great Sun, when he his influence Sheds on the frost-bound waters--The glad stream Flows to the ray and warbles as it flows. "You came to Town ..." Soon after his engagement with Sara Fricker, his heart being still not wholly healed of its passion for Mary Evans, Coleridge had gone to London from Bristol, nominally to arrange for the publication of his _Fall of Robespierre_, and had resumed intercourse with Lamb and other old Christ's Hospital friends. There he remained until Southey forcibly took him back in January, 1795. From what Lamb says of the loss of two friends we must suppose, in default of other information, that he had to give up his Anna at the same time. The loss of reason, however, to which he refers did not come until the end of the year 1795. The 19th Effusion, afterwards called "On a Discovery Made Too Late;" the 28th, "The Kiss;" the 29th, "Imitated from Ossian." "Your monody." This, not to be confounded with Cottle's "Monody on Henderson," was Coleridge's "Monody on Chatterton." Lamb's emendations were not accepted. As regards "The Man of Ross," the couplet beginning "Friend to the friendless" ultimately had a place both in that poem and in the Monody, but the couplet "and o'er the dowried virgin" was never replaced in either. The lines on spring, page 28, are "Lines to a Beautiful Spring." Dr. Forster (Faustus) was the hero of the nursery rhyme, whose scholars danced out of England into France and Spain and back again. The epitaph on an infant was in _The Watchman_, No. IX. (see note on page 62). The poem "Edmund" is called "Lines on a Friend who died of a frenzy fever induced by calumnious reports." The lines in "Absence" are those in the second stanza of the poem. They run thus:-- Ah fair Delights! that o'er my soul On Memory's wing, like shadows fly! Ah Flowers! which Joy from Eden stole While Innocence stood smiling by!-- But cease, fond Heart! this bootless moan: Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown Shall yet return, by ABSENCE crowned, And scatter livelier roses round. The 19th Effusion, beginning "Thou bleedest, my poor heart," is known as "On a Discovery Made Too Late." The 20th Effusion is the sonnet to Schiller. The lines which were sent to Lamb, written in December, 1794, are called "To a Friend, together with an unfinished poem" ("Religious Musings"). Coleridge's "Restless Gale" is the imitation of Ossian, beginning, "The stream with languid murmur creeps." "Foodful" occurs thus in the lines "To an Infant":-- Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire Awake thy eager grasp and young desire. Coleridge did not alter the phrase. Lamb contributed four effusions to this volume of Coleridge's: the 7th, to Mrs. Siddons (written in conjunction with Coleridge), the 11th, 12th and 13th. All were signed C. L. Coleridge had permitted himself to make various alterations. The following parallel will show the kind of treatment to which Lamb objected:-- LAMB'S ORIGINAL EFFUSION (11) Was it some sweet device of Faery That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade, And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid? Have these things been? or what rare witchery, Impregning with delights the charmed air, Enlighted up the semblance of a smile In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair To drop the murdering knife, and let go by His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade Still court the foot-steps of the fair-hair'd maid? Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh? While I forlorn do wander reckless where, And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there. AS ALTERED BY COLERIDGE Was it some sweet device of faery land That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade, And fancied wand'rings with a fair-hair'd maid? Have these things been? Or did the wizard wand Of Merlin wave, impregning vacant air, And kindle up the vision of a smile In those blue eyes, that seem'd to speak the while Such tender things, as might enforce Despair To drop the murth'ring knife, and let go by His fell resolve? Ah me! the lonely glade Still courts the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid, Among whose locks the west-winds love to sigh: But I forlorn do wander, reckless where, And mid my wand'rings find no ANNA there! In Effusion 12 Lamb had written:-- Or we might sit and tell some tender tale Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail In gentle sort, on those who practise not Or Love or pity, though of woman born. Coleridge made it:-- But ah! sweet scenes of fancied bliss, adieu! On rose-leaf beds amid your faery bowers I all too long have lost the dreamy hours! Beseems it now the sterner Muse to woo, If haply she her golden meed impart To realize the vision of the heart. Again in the 13th Effusion, "Written at Midnight, by the Sea-side, after a Voyage," Lamb had dotted out the last two lines. Coleridge substituted the couplet:-- How Reason reel'd! What gloomy transports rose! Till the rude dashings rock'd them to repose. Effusion 2, which Lamb would omit, was the sonnet "To Burke;" Effusion 3, "To Mercy" (on Pitt); Effusion 5, "To Erskine;" Effusion 7, Lamb and Coleridge's joint sonnet, "To Mrs. Siddons;" and Effusion 8, "To Koskiusko." The "Lines Written in Early Youth" were afterwards called "Lines on an Autumnal Evening." The poem called "Recollection," in _The Watchman_, was reborn as "Sonnet to the River Otter." The lines on the early blossom were praised by Lamb in a previous letter. The 10th Effusion was the sonnet to Earl Stanhope. Godwin was William Godwin, the philosopher. We shall later see much of him. It was Allen's wife, not Stoddart's, who had a grown-up daughter. _Ned Evans_ was a novel in four volumes, published in 1796, an imitation of _Tom Jones_, which presumably Coleridge was reviewing for the _Critical Review_. Young W. Evans is said by Mr. Dykes Campbell to have been the only son of the Mrs. Evans who befriended Coleridge when he was at Christ's Hospital, the mother of his first love, Mary Evans. Evans was at school with Coleridge and Lamb. We shall meet with him again. William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), the sonneteer, who had exerted so powerful a poetical influence on Coleridge's mind, was at this time rector of Cricklade in Wiltshire (1792-1797), but had been ill at Bath. The elegy in question was "Elegiac Stanzas written during sickness at Bath, December, 1795." The lines quoted by Lamb are respectively in the 6th, 4th, 5th and 19th Stanzas. Sophia Pringle. Probably the subject of a Catnach or other popular broadside. I have not found it. Izaak Walton. Lamb returns to praises of _The Compleat Angler_ in his letter to Robert Lloyd referred to on page 215. The reference to the Unitarian chapel bears probably upon an offer of a pulpit to Coleridge. The tutorship was probably that offered to Coleridge by Mrs. Evans of Darley Hall (no relation to Mary Evans) who wished him to teach her sons. Neither project was carried through.] LETTER 4 (_Apparently a continuation of a letter the first part of which is missing_) CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Begun] Monday Night [June 13, 1796]. UNFURNISHED at present with any sheet-filling subject, I shall continue my letter gradually and journal-wise. My second thoughts entirely coincide with your comments on "Joan of Arc," and I can only wonder at my childish judgment which overlooked the 1st book and could prefer the 9th: not that I was insensible to the soberer beauties of the former, but the latter caught me with its glare of magic,--the former, however, left a more pleasing general recollection in my mind. Let me add, the 1st book was the favourite of my sister--and _I_ now, with Joan, often "think on Domremi and the fields of Arc." I must not pass over without acknowledging my obligations to your full and satisfactory account of personifications. I have read it again and again, and it will be a guide to my future taste. Perhaps I had estimated Southey's merits too much by number, weight, and measure. I now agree completely and entirely in your opinion of the genius of Southey. Your own image of melancholy is illustrative of what you teach, and in itself masterly. I conjecture it is "disbranched" from one of your embryo "hymns." When they are mature of birth (were I you) I should print 'em in one separate volume, with "Religious Musings" and your part of the "Joan of Arc." Birds of the same soaring wing should hold on their flight in company. Once for all (and by renewing the subject you will only renew in me the condemnation of Tantalus), I hope to be able to pay you a visit (if you are then at Bristol) some time in the latter end of August or beginning of September for a week or fortnight; before that time, office business puts an absolute veto on my coming. "And if a sigh that speaks regret of happier times appear, A glimpse of joy that we have met shall shine and dry the tear." Of the blank verses I spoke of, the following lines are the only tolerably complete ones I have writ out of not more than one hundred and fifty. That I get on so slowly you may fairly impute to want of practice in composition, when I declare to you that (the few verses which you have seen excepted) I have not writ fifty lines since I left school. It may not be amiss to remark that my grandmother (on whom the verses are written) lived housekeeper in a family the fifty or sixty last years of her life--that she was a woman of exemplary piety and goodness--and for many years before her death was terribly afflicted with a cancer in her breast which she bore with true Christian patience. You may think that I have not kept enough apart the ideas of her heavenly and her earthly master but recollect I have designedly given in to her own way of feeling--and if she had a failing, 'twas that she respected her master's family too much, not reverenced her Maker too little. The lines begin imperfectly, as I may probably connect 'em if I finish at all,--and if I do, Biggs shall print 'em in a more economical way than you yours, for (Sonnets and all) they won't make a thousand lines as I propose completing 'em, and the substance must be wire-drawn. Tuesday Evening, June 14, 1796. I am not quite satisfied now with the Chatterton, and with your leave will try my hand at it again. A master joiner, you know, may leave a cabinet to be finished, when his own hands are full. To your list of illustrative personifications, into which a fine imagination enters, I will take leave to add the following from Beaumont and Fletcher's "Wife for a Month;" 'tis the conclusion of a description of a sea-fight;--"The game of _death_ was never played so nobly; the meagre thief grew wanton in his mischiefs, and his shrunk hollow eyes smiled on his ruins." There is fancy in these of a lower order from "Bonduca;"--"Then did I see these valiant men of Britain, like boding owls creep into tods of ivy, and hoot their fears to one another nightly." Not that it is a personification; only it just caught my eye in a little extract book I keep, which is full of quotations from B. and F. in particular, in which authors I can't help thinking there is a greater richness of poetical fancy than in any one, Shakspeare excepted. Are you acquainted with Massinger? At a hazard I will trouble you with a passage from a play of his called "A Very Woman." The lines are spoken by a lover (disguised) to his faithless mistress. You will remark the fine effect of the double endings. You will by your ear distinguish the lines, for I write 'em as prose. "Not far from where my father lives, _a lady_, a neighbour by, blest with as great a _beauty_ as nature durst bestow without _undoing_, dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then, and blest the house a thousand times she _dwelt in_. This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew no adulterate _incense_, nor I no way to flatter but my _fondness_; in all the bravery my friends could _show me_, in all the faith my innocence could _give me_, in the best language my true tongue could _tell me_, and all the broken sighs my sick heart _lend me_, I sued and served; long did I serve this _lady_, long was my travail, long my trade to _win her_; with all the duty of my soul I SERVED HER." "Then she must love." "She did, but never me: she could not _love me_; she would not love, she hated,--more, she _scorn'd me_; and in so poor and base a way _abused me_ for all my services, for all my _bounties_, so bold neglects flung on me."--"What out of love, and worthy love, I _gave her_ (shame to her most unworthy mind,) to fools, to girls, to fiddlers and her boys she flung, all in disdain of me." One more passage strikes my eye from B. and F.'s "Palamon and Arcite." One of 'em complains in prison: "This is all our world; we shall know nothing here but one another, hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes; the vine shall grow, but we shall never see it," &c. Is not the last circumstance exquisite? I mean not to lay myself open by saying they exceed Milton, and perhaps Collins, in sublimity. But don't you conceive all poets after Shakspeare yield to 'em in variety of genius? Massinger treads close on their heels; but you are most probably as well acquainted with his writings as your humble servant. My quotations, in that case, will only serve to expose my barrenness of matter. Southey in simplicity and tenderness, is excelled decidedly only, I think, by Beaumont and F. in his [their] "Maid's Tragedy" and some parts of "Philaster" in particular, and elsewhere occasionally; and perhaps by Cowper in his "Crazy Kate," and in parts of his translation, such as the speeches of Hecuba and Andromache. I long to know your opinion of that translation. The Odyssey especially is surely very Homeric. What nobler than the appearance of Phoebus at the beginning of the Iliad--the lines ending with "Dread sounding, bounding on the silver bow!" I beg you will give me your opinion of the translation; it afforded me high pleasure. As curious a specimen of translation as ever fell into my hands, is a young man's in our office, of a French novel. What in the original was literally "amiable delusions of the fancy," he proposed to render "the fair frauds of the imagination!" I had much trouble in licking the book into any meaning at all. Yet did the knave clear fifty or sixty pounds by subscription and selling the copyright. The book itself not a week's work! To-day's portion of my journalising epistle has been very dull and poverty-stricken. I will here end. Tuesday Night. I have been drinking egg-hot and smoking Oronooko (associated circumstances, which ever forcibly recall to my mind our evenings and nights at the Salutation); my eyes and brain are heavy and asleep, but my heart is awake; and if words came as ready as ideas, and ideas as feelings, I could say ten hundred kind things. Coleridge, you know not my supreme happiness at having one on earth (though counties separate us) whom I can call a friend. Remember you those tender lines of Logan?-- "Our broken friendships we deplore, And loves of youth that are no more; No after friendships e'er can raise Th' endearments of our early days, And ne'er the heart such fondness prove, As when we first began to love." I am writing at random, and half-tipsy, what you may not _equally_ understand, as you will be sober when you read it; but _my_ sober and _my_ half-tipsy hours you are alike a sharer in. Good night. "Then up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink, Craigdoroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink." BURNS. _Thursday_ [June 16, 1796]. I am now in high hopes to be able to visit you, if perfectly convenient on your part, by the end of next month--perhaps the last week or fortnight in July. A change of scene and a change of faces would do me good, even if that scene were not to be Bristol, and those faces Coleridge's and his friends. In the words of Terence, a little altered, "Taedet me hujus quotidiani mundi." I am heartily sick of the every-day scenes of life. I shall half wish you unmarried (don't show this to Mrs. C.) for one evening only, to have the pleasure of smoking with you, and drinking egg-hot in some little smoky room in a pot-house, for I know not yet how I shall like you in a decent room, and looking quite happy. My best love and respects to Sara notwithstanding. Yours sincerely, CHARLES LAMB. [Coleridge's image of melancholy will be found in the lines "Melancholy--a fragment." It was published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, and in a note Coleridge said that the verses were printed in the _Morning Chronicle_ in 1794. They were really printed in the _Morning Post_, December 12, 1797. Coleridge had probably sent them to Lamb in MS. The "hymns" came to nothing. "The following lines." Lamb's poem "The Grandame" was presumably included in this letter. See Vol. IV. Mary Field, Lamb's grandmother, died July 31, 1792, aged seventy-nine, and was buried in Widford churchyard. She had been for many years housekeeper in the Plumer family at Blakesware. On William Plumer's moving to Gilston, a neighbouring seat, in 1767, she had sole charge of the Blakesware mansion, where her grandchildren used to visit her. Compare Lamb's _Elia_ essays "Blakesmoor in H----shire" and "Dream-Children," N. Biggs was the printer of Coleridge's _Poems_, 1797. Lamb had begun his amendment of Coleridge's "Monody on the Death of Chatterton" in his letter of June 10. Coleridge's illustrative personifications, here referred to, are in that poem. The extract book from which Lamb copied his quotations from Beaumont and Fletcher and Massinger was, he afterwards tells us, destroyed; but similar volumes, which he filled later, are preserved. Many of his extracts he included in his _Dramatic Specimens_. Writing to Charles Lloyd, sen., in 1809, Lamb says of Cowper as a translator of Homer that he "delays you ... walking over a Bowling Green." Canon Ainger possessed a copy of the book translated by Lamb's fellow-clerk. It was called _Sentimental Tablets of the Good Pamphile_. "Translated from the French of M. Gorjy by P. S. Dupuy of the East India House, 1795." Among the subscribers' names were Thomas Bye (5 copies), Ball, Evans, Savory (2 copies), and Lamb himself.] LETTER 5 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE [Probably begun on Wednesday, June 29. P.M. July 1, 1796.] The first moment I can come I will, but my hopes of coming yet a while yet hang on a ticklish thread. The coach I come by is immaterial as I shall so easily by your direction find ye out. My mother is grown so entirely helpless (not having any use of her limbs) that Mary is necessarily confined from ever sleeping out, she being her bed fellow. She thanks you tho' and will accompany me in spirit. Most exquisite are the lines from Withers. Your own lines introductory to your poem on Self run smoothly and pleasurably, and I exhort you to continue 'em. What shall I say to your Dactyls? They are what you would call good per se, but a parody on some of 'em is just now suggesting itself, and you shall have it rough and unlicked. I mark with figures the lines parodied. 4.--Sorely your Dactyls do drag along lim'p-footed. 5.--Sad is the measure that han'gs a clod round 'em so, 6.--Meagre, and lan'guid, proclaiming its wretchedness. 1.--Weary, unsatisfied, not little sic'k of 'em. 11.--Cold is my tired heart, I have no charity. 2.--Painfully trav'lling thus over the rugged road. 7.--O begone, Measure, half Latin, half En'glish, then. 12.--Dismal your Dactyls are, God help ye, rhyming Ones. I _possibly_ may not come this fortnight--therefore all thou hast to do is not to look for me any particular day, only to write word immediately if at any time you quit Bristol, lest I come and Taffy be not at home. I _hope_ I can come in a day or two. But young Savory of my office is suddenly taken ill in this very nick of time and I must officiate for him till he can come to work again. Had the knave gone sick and died and putrefied at any other time, philosophy might have afforded one comfort, but just now I have no patience with him. Quarles I am as great a stranger to as I was to Withers. I wish you would try and do something to bring our elder bards into more general fame. I writhe with indignation when in books of Criticism, where common place quotation is heaped upon quotation, I find no mention of such men as Massinger, or B. and Fl, men with whom succeeding Dramatic Writers (Otway alone excepted) can bear no manner of comparison. Stupid Knox hath noticed none of 'em among his extracts. Thursday.--Mrs. C. can scarce guess how she has gratified me by her very kind letter and sweet little poem. I feel that I _should_ thank her in rhyme, but she must take my acknowledgment at present in plain honest prose. The uncertainty in which I yet stand whether I can come or no damps my spirits, reduces me a degree below prosaical, and keeps me in a suspense that fluctuates between hope and fear. Hope is a charming, lively, blue-eyed wench, and I am always glad of her company, but could dispense with the visitor she brings with her, her younger sister, Fear, a white-liver'd, lilly-cheeked, bashful, palpitating, awkward hussey, that hangs like a green girl at her sister's apronstrings, and will go with her whithersoever _she_ goes. For the life and soul of me I could not improve those lines in your poem on the Prince and Princess, so I changed them to what you bid me and left 'em at Perry's. I think 'em altogether good, and do not see why you were sollicitous about _any_ alteration. I have not yet seen, but will make it my business to see, to-day's _Chronicle_, for your verses on Horne Took. Dyer stanza'd him in one of the papers t'other day, but I think unsuccessfully. Tooke's friends' meeting was I suppose a dinner of CONDOLENCE. I am not sorry to find you (for all Sara) immersed in clouds of smoke and metaphysic. You know I had a sneaking kindness for this last noble science, and you taught me some smattering of it. I look to become no mean proficient under your tuition. Coleridge, what do you mean by saying you wrote to me about Plutarch and Porphyry--I received no such letter, nor remember a syllable of the matter, yet am not apt to forget any part of your epistles, least of all an injunction like that. I will cast about for 'em, tho' I am a sad hand to know what books are worth, and both those worthy gentlemen are alike out of my line. To-morrow I shall be less suspensive and in better cue to write, so good bye at present. Friday Evening.--That execrable aristocrat and knave Richardson has given me an absolute refusal of leave! The _poor man_ cannot guess at my disappointment. Is it not hard, "this dread dependance on the low bred mind?" Continue to write to me tho', and I must be content--Our loves and best good wishes attend upon you both. LAMB. Savory did return, but there are 2 or 3 more ill and absent, which was the plea for refusing me. I will never commit my peace of mind by depending on such a wretch for a favor in future, so shall never have heart to ask for holidays again. The man next him in office, Cartwright, furnished him with the objections. C. LAMB. [The Dactyls were Coleridge's only in the third stanza; the remainder were Southey's. The poem is known as "The Soldier's Wife," printed in Southey's _Poems_, 1797. Later Southey revised the verses. _The Anti-Jacobin_ had a parody of them. Young Savory was probably a relative of Hester Savory, whom we shall meet later. He entered the East India House on the same day that Lamb did. We do not know what were the lines from Wither which Coleridge had sent to Lamb; but Lamb himself eventually did much to bring him and the elder bards into more general fame--in the _Dramatic Specimens_, 1808, and in the essay "On the Poetical Works of George Wither," in the _Works_, 1818. Stupid Knox was Vicesimus Knox (1752-1821), the editor of _Elegant Extracts_ in many forms. "Her ... sweet little poem." Sara Coleridge's verses no longer exist. See Lamb's next letter for his poetical reply. Coleridge's poem on the Prince and Princess, "On a Late Connubial Rupture in High Life," was not accepted by Perry, of the _Morning Chronicle_. It appeared in the _Monthly Magazine_, September, 1796. The "Verses addressed to J. Horne Tooke and the company who met on June 28, 1796, to celebrate his poll at the Westminster Election" were not printed in the _Morning Chronicle_. Tooke had opposed Charles James Fox, who polled 5,160 votes, and Sir Alan Gardner, who polled 4,814, against his own 2,819. Dyer was George Dyer (1755-1841), an old Christ's Hospitaller (but before Lamb and Coleridge's time), of whom we shall see much--Lamb's famous "G.D." William Richardson was Accountant-General of the East India House at that time; Charles Cartwright, his Deputy.] LETTER 6 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE The 5th July, 1796. [P.M. Same date.] TO SARA AND HER SAMUEL Was it so hard a thing? I did but ask A fleeting holy day. One little week, Or haply two, had bounded my request. What if the jaded Steer, who all day long Had borne the heat and labour of the plough, When Evening came and her sweet cooling hour, Should seek to trespass on a neighbour copse, Where greener herbage waved, or clearer streams Invited him to slake his burning thirst? That Man were crabbed, who should say him Nay: That Man were churlish, who should drive him thence! A blessing light upon your heads, ye good, Ye hospitable pair. I may not come, To catch on Clifden's heights the summer gale: I may not come, a pilgrim, to the "Vales Where Avon winds," to taste th' inspiring waves Which Shakespere drank, our British Helicon: Or, with mine eye intent on Redcliffe towers, To drop a tear for that Mysterious youth, Cruelly slighted, who to London Walls, In evil hour, shap'd his disastrous course. Complaints, begone; begone, ill-omen'd thoughts-- For yet again, and lo! from Avon banks Another "Minstrel" cometh! Youth beloved, God and good angels guide thee on thy way, And gentler fortunes wait the friends I love. C.L. LETTER 7 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE the 6th July [P.M. July 7, 1796]. Substitute in room of that last confused & incorrect Paragraph, following the words "disastrous course," these lines [Sidenote: Vide 3d page of this epistle.] { With better hopes, I trust, from Avon's vales { This other "minstrel" cometh Youth endear'd no { God & good Angels guide thee on thy road, { And gentler fortunes wait the friends I love. [_Lamb has crossed through the above lines_.] Let us prose. What can I do till you send word what priced and placed house you should like? Islington (possibly) you would not like, to me 'tis classical ground. Knightsbridge is a desirable situation for the air of the parks. St. George's Fields is convenient for its contiguity to the Bench. Chuse! But are you really coming to town? The hope of it has entirely disarmed my petty disappointment of its nettles. Yet I rejoice so much on my own account, that I fear I do not feel enough pure satisfaction on yours. Why, surely, the joint editorship of the Chron: must be a very comfortable & secure living for a man. But should not you read French, or do you? & can you write with sufficient moderation, as 'tis called, when one suppresses the one half of what one feels, or could say, on a subject, to chime in the better with popular luke-warmness?--White's "Letters" are near publication. Could you review 'em, or get 'em reviewed? Are you not connected with the Crit: Rev:? His frontispiece is a good conceit: Sir John learning to dance, to please Madame Page, in dress of doublet, etc., from [for] the upper half; & modern pantaloons, with shoes, etc., of the 18th century, from [for] the lower half--& the whole work is full of goodly quips & rare fancies, "all deftly masqued like hoar antiquity"--much superior to Dr. Kenrick's Falstaff's Wedding, which you may have seen. Allen sometimes laughs at Superstition, & Religion, & the like. A living fell vacant lately in the gift of the Hospital. White informed him that he stood a fair chance for it. He scrupled & scrupled about it, and at last (to use his own words) "tampered" with _Godwin_ to know whether the thing was honest or not. _Godwin_ said nay to it, & Allen rejected the living! Could the blindest Poor Papish have bowed more servilely to his Priest or Casuist? Why sleep the Watchman's answers to that _Godwin_? I beg you will not delay to alter, if you mean to keep, those last lines I sent you. Do that, & read these for your pains:-- TO THE POET COWPER Cowper, I thank my God that thou art heal'd! Thine was the sorest malady of all; And I am sad to think that it should light Upon the worthy head! But thou art heal'd, And thou art yet, we trust, the destin'd man, Born to reanimate the Lyre, whose chords Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long, To the immortal sounding of whose strings Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse; Among whose wires with lighter finger playing, Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentle name, The Lady Muses' dearest darling child, Elicited the deftest tunes yet heard In Hall or Bower, taking the delicate Ear Of Sydney, & his peerless Maiden Queen. Thou, then, take up the mighty Epic strain, Cowper, of England's Bards, the wisest & the best. 1796. I have read your climax of praises in those 3 reviews. These mighty spouters-out of panegyric waters have, 2 of 'em, scattered their spray even upon me! & the waters are cooling & refreshing. Prosaically, the Monthly Reviewers have made indeed a large article of it, & done you justice. The Critical have, in their wisdom, selected not the very best specimens, & notice not, except as one name on the muster-roll, the "Religious Musings." I suspect Master Dyer to have been the writer of that article, as the substance of it was the very remarks & the very language he used to me one day. I fear you will not accord entirely with my sentiments of Cowper, as _exprest_ above, (perhaps scarcely just), but the poor Gentleman has just recovered from his Lunacies, & that begets pity, & pity love, and love admiration, & then it goes hard with People but they lie! Have you read the Ballad called "Leonora," in the second Number of the "Monthly Magazine"? If you have !!!!!!!!!!!!!! There is another fine song, from the same author (Berger), in the 3d No., of scarce inferior merit; & (vastly below these) there are some happy specimens of English hexameters, in an imitation of Ossian, in the 5th No. For your Dactyls I am sorry you are so sore about 'em--a very Sir Fretful! In good troth, the Dactyls are good Dactyls, but their measure is naught. Be not yourself "half anger, half agony" if I pronounce your darling lines not to be the best you ever wrote--you have written much. For the alterations in those lines, let 'em run thus: I may not come a pilgrim, to the Banks of _Avon, lucid stream_, to taste the wave (inspiring wave) was too which Shakspere drank, our British Helicon; common place. or with mine eye, &c., &c. _To muse, in tears_, on that mysterious Youth, &c. (better than "drop a tear") Then the last paragraph alter thus better refer to my own Complaint begone, begone unkind reproof, "complaint" solely than Take up, my song, take up a merrier strain, half to that and half to For yet again, & lo! from Avon's vales, Chatterton, as in your Another mistrel cometh! youth _endeared_, copy, which creates a God & good angels &c., as before confusion--"ominous fears" &c. Have a care, good Master poet, of the Statute de Contumelia. What do you mean by calling Madame Mara harlot & naughty things? The goodness of the verse would not save you in a court of Justice. But are you really coming to town? Coleridge, a gentleman called in London lately from Bristol, inquired whether there were any of the family of a Mr. Chambers living--this Mr. Chambers he said had been the making of a friend's fortune who wished to make some return for it. He went away without seeing her. Now, a Mrs. Reynolds, a very intimate friend of ours, whom you have seen at our house, is the only daughter, & all that survives, of Mr. Chambers--& a very little supply would be of service to her, for she married very unfortunately, & has parted with her husband. Pray find out this Mr. Pember (for that was the gentleman's friend's name), he is an attorney, & lives at Bristol. Find him out, & acquaint him with the circumstances of the case, & offer to be the medium of supply to Mrs. Reynolds, if he chuses to make her a present. She is in very distrest circumstances. Mr. Pember, attorney, Bristol--Mr. Chambers lived in the Temple. Mrs. Reynolds, his daughter, was my schoolmistress, & is in the room at this present writing. This last circumstance induced me to write so soon again--I have not further to add--Our loves to Sara. Thursday. C. LAMB. [The passage at the beginning, before "Let us prose," together with the later passages in the same manner, refers to the poem in the preceding letter, which in slightly different form is printed in editions of Lamb as "Lines to Sara and Her Samuel." To complete the sense of the letter one should compare the text of the poem in Vol. IV. Coleridge had just received a suggestion, through Dr. Beddoes of Bristol, that he should replace Grey, the late co-editor (with James Perry) of the _Morning Chronicle_. It came to nothing; but Coleridge had told Lamb and had asked him to look out a house in town for him. Dr. Kenrick's "Falstaff's Wedding," 1760, was a continuation of Shakespeare's "Henry IV." We do not know what were the last lines that Lamb had sent to Coleridge. The lines to Cowper were printed in the _Monthly Magazine_ for December, 1796. Coleridge's _Poems_ were reviewed in the Monthly Review, June, 1796, with no mention of Lamb. The _Critical Review_ for the same month said of Lamb's effusions: "These are very beautiful." Burger's "Leonora," which was to have such an influence upon English literature (it was the foundation of much of Sir Walter Scott's poetry), was translated from the German by William Taylor of Norwich in 1790 and printed in the _Monthly Magazine_ in March, 1796. Scott at once made a rival version. The other fine song, in the April _Monthly Magazine_, was "The Lass of Fair Wone." The mention of the Statute de Contumelia seems to refer to the "Lines Composed in a Concert-Room," which were first printed in the _Morning Post_, September 24, 1799, but must have been written earlier. Madame Mara (1749-1833) is not mentioned by name in the poem, but being one of the principal singers of the day Lamb probably fastened the epithet upon her by way of pleasantry; or she may have been referred to in the version of the lines which Lamb had seen. The passage about Mr. Chambers is not now explicable; but we know that Mrs. Reynolds was Lamb's schoolmistress, probably when he was very small, and before he went to William Bird's Academy, and that in later life he allowed her a pension of L30 a year until her death. Between this and the next letter came, in all probability, a number of letters to Coleridge which have been lost. It is incredible that Lamb kept silence, at this period, for eleven weeks.] LETTER 8 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE [P.M. September 27, 1796.] My dearest friend--White or some of my friends or the public papers by this time may have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our family. I will only give you the outlines. My poor dear dearest sister in a fit of insanity has been the death of her own mother. I was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present in a mad house, from whence I fear she must be moved to an hospital. God has preserved to me my senses,--I eat and drink and sleep, and have my judgment I believe very sound. My poor father was slightly wounded, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt. Mr. Norris of the Bluecoat school has been very very kind to us, and we have no other friend, but thank God I am very calm and composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. Write,--as religious a letter as possible--but no mention of what is gone and done with.--With me "the former things are passed away," and I have something more to do that [than] to feel-- God almighty have us all in his keeping.-- C. LAMB. Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind. Do as you please, but if you publish, publish mine (I give free leave) without name or initial, and never send me a book, I charge you. You [your] own judgment will convince you not to take any notice of this yet to your dear wife.--You look after your family,--I have my reason and strength left to take care of mine. I charge you, don't think of coming to see me. Write. I will not see you if you come. God almighty love you and all of us-- [The following is the report of the inquest upon Mrs. Lamb which appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_ for September 26, 1796. The tragedy had occurred on Thursday, September 22:-- On Friday afternoon the Coroner and a respectable Jury sat on the body of a Lady in the neighbourhood of Holborn, who died in consequence of a wound from her daughter the preceding day. It appeared by the evidence adduced, that while the family were preparing for dinner, the young lady seized a case knife laying on the table, and in a menacing manner pursued a little girl, her apprentice, round the room; on the eager calls of her helpless infirm mother to forbear, she renounced her first object, and with loud shrieks approached her parent. The child by her cries quickly brought up the landlord of the house, but too late--the dreadful scene presented to him the mother lifeless, pierced to the heart, on a chair, her daughter yet wildly standing over her with the fatal knife, and the venerable old man, her father, weeping by her side, himself bleeding at the forehead from the effects of a severe blow he received from one of the forks she had been madly hurling about the room. For a few days prior to this the family had observed some symptoms of insanity in her, which had so much increased on the Wednesday evening, that her brother early the next morning went in quest of Dr. Pitcairn--had that gentleman been met with, the fatal catastrophe had, in all probability, been prevented. It seems the young Lady had been once before, in her earlier years, deranged, from the harassing fatigues of too much business.--As her carriage towards her mother was ever affectionate in the extreme, it is believed that to the increased attentiveness, which her parents' infirmities called for by day and night, is to be attributed the present insanity of this ill-fated young woman. It has been stated in some of the Morning Papers, that she has an insane brother also in confinement--this is without foundation. The Jury of course brought in their Verdict, _Lunacy_. In the _Whitehall Evening Post_ the first part of the account is the same, but the end is as follows:-- The above unfortunate young person is a Miss Lamb, a mantua-maker, in Little Queen-street, Lincoln's-inn-fields. She has been, since, removed to Islington mad-house. Mr. Norris of the Blue-Coat School has been confounded with Randal Norris of the Inner Temple, another friend of the Lambs, but is not, I think, the same. The reference to the poetry and Coleridge's publication of it shows that Lamb had already been invited to contribute to the second edition of Coleridge's _Poems_. The words "and never" in the original have a line through them which might mean erasure, but, I think, does not. "Your own judgment..." Mrs. Coleridge had just become a mother: David Hartley Coleridge was born on September 19. This was Coleridge's reply to Lamb's letter, as given in Gillman's _Life of Coleridge_:-- "[September 28, 1796.] "Your letter, my friend, struck me with a mighty horror. It rushed upon me and stupified my feelings. You bid me write you a religious letter; I am not a man who would attempt to insult the greatness of your anguish by any other consolation. Heaven knows that in the easiest fortunes there is much dissatisfaction and weariness of spirit; much that calls for the exercise of patience and resignation; but in storms, like these, that shake the dwelling and make the heart tremble, there is no middle way between despair and the yielding up of the whole spirit unto the guidance of faith. And surely it is a matter of joy, that your faith in Jesus has been preserved; the Comforter that should relieve you is not far from you. But as you are a Christian, in the name of that Saviour, who was filled with bitterness and made drunken with wormwood, I conjure you to have recourse in frequent prayer to 'his God and your God,' the God of mercies, and father of all comfort. Your poor father is, I hope, almost senseless of the calamity; the unconscious instrument of Divine Providence knows it not, and your mother is in heaven. It is sweet to be roused from a frightful dream by the song of birds, and the gladsome rays of the morning. Ah, how infinitely more sweet to be awakened from the blackness and amazement of a sudden horror, by the glories of God manifest, and the hallelujahs of angels. "As to what regards yourself, I approve altogether of your abandoning what you justly call vanities. I look upon you as a man, called by sorrow and anguish and a strange desolation of hopes into quietness, and a soul set apart and made peculiar to God; we cannot arrive at any portion of heavenly bliss without in some measure imitating Christ. And they arrive at the largest inheritance who imitate the most difficult parts of his character, and bowed down and crushed under foot, cry in fulness of faith, 'Father, thy will be done.' "I wish above measure to have you for a little while here--no visitants shall blow on the nakedness of your feelings--you shall be quiet, and your spirit may be healed. I see no possible objection, unless your father's helplessness prevent you, and unless you are necessary to him. If this be not the case, I charge you write me that you will come. "I charge you, my dearest friend, not to dare to encourage gloom or despair--you are a temporary sharer in human miseries, that you may be an eternal partaker of the Divine nature. I charge you, if by any means it be possible, come to me. "I remain, your affectionate, "S.T. COLERIDGE."] LETTER 9 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE [P.M. October 3, 1796.] My dearest friend, your letter was an inestimable treasure to me. It will be a comfort to you, I know, to know that our prospects are somewhat brighter. My poor dear dearest sister, the unhappy and unconscious instrument of the Almighty's judgments to our house, is restored to her senses; to a dreadful sense and recollection of what has past, awful to her mind, and impressive (as it must be to the end of life) but temper'd with religious resignation, and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which in this early stage knows how to distinguish between a deed committed in a transient fit of frenzy, and the terrible guilt of a Mother's murther. I have seen her. I found her this morning calm and serene, far very very far from an indecent forgetful serenity; she has a most affectionate and tender concern for what has happend. Indeed from the beginning, frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, I had confidence enough in her strength of mind, and religious principle, to look forward to a time when _even she_ might recover tranquillity. God be praised, Coleridge, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never once been otherwise than collected, and calm; even on the dreadful day and in the midst of the terrible scene I preserved a tranquillity, which bystanders may have construed into indifference, a tranquillity not of despair; is it folly or sin in me to say that it was a religious principle that _most_ supported me? I allow much to other favorable circumstances. I felt that I had something else to do than to regret; on that first evening my Aunt was lying insensible, to all appearance like one dying,--my father, with his poor forehead plastered over from a wound he had received from a daughter dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly,--my mother a dead and murder'd corpse in the next room--yet was I wonderfully supported. I closed not my eyes in sleep that night, but lay without terrors and without despair. I have lost no sleep since. I had been long used not to rest in things of sense, had endeavord after a comprehension of mind, unsatisfied with the "ignorant present time," and this kept me up. I had the whole weight of the family thrown on me, for my brother, little disposed (I speak not without tenderness for him) at any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad leg, an exemption from such duties, and I was now left alone. One little incident may serve to make you understand my way of managing my mind. Within a day or 2 after the fatal ONE, we drest for dinner a tongue, which we had had salted for some weeks in the house. As I sat down a feeling like remorse struck me,--this tongue poor Mary got for me, and can I partake of it now, when she is far away--a thought occurrd and relieved me,--if I give in to this way of feeling, there is not a chair, a room, an object in our rooms, that will not awaken the keenest griefs, I must rise above such weaknesses.--I hope this was not want of true feeling. I did not let this carry me, tho', too far. On the very 2d day (I date from the day of horrors) as is usual in such cases there were a matter of 20 people I do think supping in our room. They prevailed on me to eat _with them_, (for to eat I never refused). They were all making merry! in the room,--some had come from friendship, some from busy curiosity, and some from Interest; I was going to partake with them, when my recollection came that my poor dead mother was lying in the next room, the very next room, a mother who thro' life wished nothing but her children's welfare-- indignation, the rage of grief, something like remorse, rushed upon my mind in an agony of emotion,--I found my way mechanically to the adjoining room, and fell on my knees by the side of her coffin, asking forgiveness of heaven, and sometimes of her, for forgetting her so soon. Tranquillity returned, and it was the only violent emotion that mastered me, and I think it did me good. I mention these things because I hate concealment, and love to give a faithful journal of what passes within me. Our friends have been very good. Sam Le Grice who was then in town was with me the first 3 or 4 first days, and was as a brother to me, gave up every hour of his time, to the very hurting of his health and spirits, in constant attendance and humouring my poor father. Talk'd with him, read to him, play'd at cribbage with him (for so short is the old man's recollection, that he was playing at cards, as tho' nothing had happened, while the Coroner's Inquest was sitting over the way!). Samuel wept tenderly when he went away, for his mother wrote him a very severe letter on his loitering so long in town, and he was forced to go. Mr. Norris of Christ Hospital has been as a father to me, Mrs. Norris as a mother; tho' we had few claims on them. A Gentleman, brother to my Godmother, from whom we never had right or reason to expect any such assistance, sent my father twenty pounds,--and to crown all these God's blessings to our family at such a time, an old Lady, a cousin of my father and Aunt's, a Gentlewoman of fortune, is to take my Aunt and make her comfortable for the short remainder of her days. My Aunt is recover'd and as well as ever, and highly pleased at thoughts of going,--and has generously given up the interest of her little money (which was formerly paid my Father for her board) wholely and solely to my Sister's use. Reckoning this we have, Daddy and I, for our two selves and an old maid servant to look after him, when I am out, which will be necessary, L170 or L180 (rather) a year, out of which we can spare 50 or 60 at least for Mary, while she stays at Islington, where she must and shall stay during her father's life for his and her comfort. I know John will make speeches about it, but she shall not go into an hospital. The good Lady of the mad house, and her daughter, an elegant sweet behaved young Lady, love her and are taken with her amazingly, and I know from her own mouth she loves them, and longs to be with them as much.--Poor thing, they say she was but the other morning saying, she knew she must go to Bethlem for life; that one of her brothers would have it so, but the other would wish it not, but be obliged to go with the stream; that she had often as she passed Bedlam thought it likely "here it may be my fate to end my days--" conscious of a certain flightiness in her poor head oftentimes, and mindful of more than one severe illness of that nature before. A Legacy of L100, which my father will have at Xmas, and this 20 I mentioned before, with what is in the house will much more than set us Clear;--if my father, an old servant maid, and I, can't live and live comfortably on L130 or L120 a year we ought to burn by slow fires, and I almost would, that Mary might not go into an hospital. Let me not leave one unfavourable impression on your mind respecting my Brother. Since this has happened he has been very kind and brotherly; but I fear for his mind,--he has taken his ease in the world, and is not fit himself to struggle with difficulties, nor has much accustomed himself to throw himself into their way,--and I know his language is already, "Charles, you must take care of yourself, you must not abridge yourself of a single pleasure you have been used to," &c &c and in that style of talking. But you, a necessarian, can respect a difference of mind, and love what is _amiable_ in a character not perfect. He has been very good, but I fear for his mind. Thank God, I can unconnect myself with him, and shall manage all my father's monies in future myself, if I take charge of Daddy, which poor John has not even hinted a wish, at any future time even, to share with me. The Lady at this mad house assures me that I may dismiss immediately both Doctor and apothecary, retaining occasionally an opening draught or so for a while, and there is a less expensive establishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself for L50 or guineas a year--the outside would be 60--You know by oeconomy how much more, even, I shall be able to spare for her comforts. She will, I fancy, if she stays, make one of the family, rather than of the patients, and the old and young ladies I like exceedingly, and she loves dearly, and they, as the saying is, take to her very extraordinarily, if it is extraordinary that people who see my sister should love her. Of all the people I ever saw in the world my poor sister was most and thoroughly devoid of the least tincture of selfishness--I will enlarge upon her qualities, poor dear dearest soul, in a future letter for my own comfort, for I understand her throughly; and if I mistake not, in the most trying situation that a human being can be found in, she will be found (I speak not with sufficient humility, I fear, but humanly and foolishly speaking) she will be found, I trust, uniformly great and amiable; God keep her in her present mind, to whom be thanks and praise for all His dispensations to mankind. LAMB. Coleridge, continue to write; but do not for ever offend me by talking of sending me cash. Sincerely, and on my soul, we do not want it. God love you both! I will write again very soon. Do you write directly. These mentioned good fortunes and change of prospects had almost brought my mind over to the extreme the very opposite to Despair; I was in danger of making myself too happy; your letter brought me back to a view of things which I had entertained from the beginning; I hope (for Mary I can answer) but I hope that _I_ shall thro' life never have less recollection nor a fainter impression of what has happened than I have now; 'tis not a light thing, nor meant by the Almighty to be received lightly. I must be serious, circumspect, and deeply religious thro' life; by such means may _both_ of us escape madness in future, if it so please the Almighty. Send me word, how it fares with Sara. I repeat it, your letter was and will be an inestimable treasure to me; you have a view of what my situation demands of me like my own view; and I trust a just one. [A word perhaps on Lamb's salary might be fitting here. For the first three years, from joining the East India House on April 5, 1792, he received nothing. This probationary period over, he was given L40 for the year 1795-1796. This, however, was raised to L70 in 1796 and there were means of adding to it a little, by extra work and by a small holiday grant. In 1797 it was L80, in 1799 L90, and from that time until 1814 it rose by L10 every second year. Samuel Le Grice was the younger brother of Valentine Le Grice. Both were at Christ's Hospital with Lamb and Coleridge and are mentioned in the _Elia_ essay on the school. Sam Le Grice afterwards had a commission in the 60th Foot, and died in Jamaica in 1802, as we shall see.] LETTER 10 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE [P.M. October 17, 1796.] My dearest friend, I grieve from my very soul to observe you in your plans of life veering about from this hope to the other, and settling no where. Is it an untoward fatality (speaking humanly) that does this for you, a stubborn irresistible concurrence of events? or lies the fault, as I fear it does, in your own mind? You seem to be taking up splendid schemes of fortune only to lay them down again, and your fortunes are an ignis fatuus that has been conducting you, in thought, from Lancaster Court, Strand, to somewhere near Matlock, then jumping across to Dr. Somebody's whose son's tutor you were likely to be, and would to God the dancing demon _may_ conduct you at last in peace and comfort to the "life and labors of a cottager." You see from the above awkward playfulness of fancy, that my spirits are not quite depressed; I should ill deserve God's blessings, which since the late terrible event have come down in mercy upon us, if I indulged regret or querulousness,--Mary continues serene and chearful,--I have not by me a little letter she wrote to me, for, tho' I see her almost every day yet we delight to write to one another (for we can scarce see each other but in company with some of the people of the house), I have not the letter by me but will quote from memory what she wrote in it. "I have no bad terrifying dreams. At midnight when I happen to awake, the nurse sleeping by the side of me, with the noise of the poor mad people around me, I have no fear. The spirit of my mother seems to descend, and smile upon me, and bid me live to enjoy the life and reason which the Almighty has given me--I shall see her again in heaven; she will then understand me better; my Grandmother too will understand me better, and will then say no more, as she used to do, 'Polly, what are those poor crazy moyther'd brains of yours thinking of always?'"--Poor Mary, my Mother indeed _never understood_ her right. She loved her, as she loved us all, with a Mother's love; but in opinion, in feeling, and sentiment, and disposition, bore so distant a resemblance to her daughter, that she never understood her right. Never could believe how much _she_ loved her--but met her caresses, her protestations of filial affection, too frequently with coldness and repulse.--Still she was a good mother, God forbid I should think of her but _most_ respectfully, _most_ affectionately. Yet she would always love my brother above Mary, who was not worthy of one tenth of that affection, which Mary had a right to claim. But it is my sister's gratifying recollection, that every act of duty and of love she could pay, every kindness (and I speak true, when I say to the hurting of her health, and, most probably, in great part to the derangement of her senses) thro' a long course of infirmities and sickness, she could shew her, SHE EVER DID. I will some day, as I promised, enlarge to you upon my Sister's excellencies; 'twill seem like exaggeration; but I will do it. At present short letters suit my state of mind best. So take my kindest wishes for your comfort and establishment in life, and for Sara's welfare and comforts with you. God love you; God love us all-- C. LAMB. [This letter is the only one in which Lamb speaks freely of his mother. He dwells on her memory in _Blank Verse_, 1798, but in later years he mentioned her in his writings only twice, in the _Elia_ essays "New Year's Eve" and "My First Play," and then very indirectly: probably from the wish to spare his sister pain, although Talfourd tells us that Mary Lamb spoke of her mother often. Compare the poem on page 110. In a letter written by Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart on September 21, 1803, there is further light on Mrs. Lamb's want of sympathetic understanding of certain characters. The references at the beginning are to Coleridge's idea of joining Perry on the _Morning Chronicle_; of teaching Mrs. Evans' children; of establishing a school at Derby, on the suggestion of Dr. Crompton; and finally of moving from Bristol to settle down in a cottage at Nether Stowey, and support himself by husbandry and literature.] LETTER 11 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE Oct. 24th, 1796. [Monday.] Coleridge, I feel myself much your debtor for that spirit of confidence and friendship which dictated your last letter. May your soul find peace at last in your cottage life! I only wish you were but settled. Do continue to write to me. I read your letters with my sister, and they give us both abundance of delight. Especially they please us two, when you talk in a religious strain,--not but we are offended occasionally with a certain freedom of expression, a certain air of mysticism, more consonant to the conceits of pagan philosophy, than consistent with the humility of genuine piety. To instance now in your last letter--you say, "it is by the press [sic], that God hath given finite spirits both evil and good (I suppose you mean simply bad men and good men), a portion as it were of His Omnipresence!" Now, high as the human intellect comparatively will soar, and wide as its influence, malign or salutary, can extend, is there not, Coleridge, a distance between the Divine Mind and it, which makes such language blasphemy? Again, in your first fine consolatory epistle you say, "you are a temporary sharer in human misery, that you may be an eternal partaker of the Divine Nature." What more than this do those men say, who are for exalting the man Christ Jesus into the second person of an unknown Trinity,--men, whom you or I scruple not to call idolaters? Man, full of imperfections, at best, and subject to wants which momentarily remind him of dependence; man, a weak and ignorant being, "servile" from his birth "to all the skiey influences," with eyes sometimes open to discern the right path, but a head generally too dizzy to pursue it; man, in the pride of speculation, forgetting his nature, and hailing in himself the future God, must make the angels laugh. Be not angry with me, Coleridge; I wish not to cavil; I know I cannot _instruct_ you; I only wish to _remind_ you of that humility which best becometh the Christian character. God, in the New Testament (_our best guide_), is represented to us in the kind, condescending, amiable, familiar light of a _parent_: and in my poor mind 'tis best for us so to consider of Him, as our heavenly Father, and our _best Friend_, without indulging too bold conceptions of His nature. Let us learn to think humbly of ourselves, and rejoice in the appellation of "dear children," "brethren," and "co-heirs with Christ of the promises," seeking to know no further. I am not insensible, indeed I am not, of the value of that first letter of yours, and I shall find reason to thank you for it again and again long after that blemish in it is forgotten. It will be a fine lesson of comfort to us, whenever we read it; and read it we often shall, Mary and I. Accept our loves and best kind wishes for the welfare of yourself and wife, and little one. Nor let me forget to wish you joy on your birthday so lately past; I thought you had been older. My kind thanks and remembrances to Lloyd. God love us all, and may He continue to be the father and the friend of the whole human race! Sunday Evening. C. LAMB. [It is interesting to notice that with these letters Lamb suddenly assumes a gravity, independence and sense of authority that hitherto his correspondence has lacked. The responsibility of the household seems to have awakened his extraordinary common sense and fine understanding sense of justice. Previously he had ventured to criticise only Coleridge's literary exercises; he places his finger now on conduct too. Coleridge's "last letter" has not been preserved; but the "first fine consolatory epistle" is printed above. This letter contains the first mention of Charles Lloyd (1775-1839), who was afterwards to be for a while so intimately associated with Lamb. Charles Lloyd was the son of a Quaker banker of Birmingham. He had published a volume of poems the year before and had met Coleridge when that magnetic visionary had visited Birmingham to solicit subscribers for _The Watchman_ early in 1796. The proposition that Lloyd should live with Coleridge and become in a way his pupil was agreed to by his parents, and in September he accompanied the philosopher to Nether Stowey a day or so after David Hartley's birth, all eager to begin domestication and tutelage. Lloyd was a sensitive, delicate youth, with an acute power of analysis and considerable grasp of metaphysical ideas. No connection ever began more amiably. He was, I might add, by only two days Lamb's junior.] LETTER 12 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE Oct. 28th, 1796. My dear Friend, I am not ignorant that to be a partaker of the Divine Nature is a phrase to be met with in Scripture: I am only apprehensive, lest we in these latter days, tinctured (some of us perhaps pretty deeply) with mystical notions and the pride of metaphysics, might be apt to affix to such phrases a meaning, which the primitive users of them, the simple fishermen of Galilee for instance, never intended to convey. With that other part of your apology I am not quite so well satisfied. You seem to me to have been straining your comparing faculties to bring together things infinitely distant and unlike; the feeble narrow-sphered operations of the human intellect and the everywhere diffused mind of Deity, the peerless wisdom of Jehovah. Even the expression appears to me inaccurate--portion of omnipresence--omnipresence is an attribute whose very essence is unlimitedness. How can omnipresence be affirmed of anything in part? But enough of this spirit of disputatiousness. Let us attend to the proper business of human life, and talk a little together respecting our domestic concerns. Do you continue to make me acquainted with what you were doing, and how soon you are likely to be settled once for all. I have satisfaction in being able to bid you rejoice with me in my sister's continued reason and composedness of mind. Let us both be thankful for it. I continue to visit her very frequently, and the people of the house are vastly indulgent to her; she is likely to be as comfortably situated in all respects as those who pay twice or thrice the sum. They love her, and she loves them, and makes herself very useful to them. Benevolence sets out on her journey with a good heart, and puts a good face on it, but is apt to limp and grow feeble, unless she calls in the aid of self-interest by way of crutch. In Mary's case, as far as respects those she is with, 'tis well that these principles are so likely to co-operate. I am rather at a loss sometimes for books for her,--our reading is somewhat confined, and we have nearly exhausted our London library. She has her hands too full of work to read much, but a little she must read; for reading was her daily bread. Have you seen Bowles's new poem on "Hope?" What character does it bear? Has he exhausted his stores of tender plaintiveness? or is he the same in this last as in all his former pieces? The duties of the day call me off from this pleasant intercourse with my friend--so for the present adieu. Now for the truant borrowing of a few minutes from business. Have you met with a new poem called the "Pursuits of Literature?" From the extracts in the "British Review" I judge it to be a very humorous thing; in particular I remember what I thought a very happy character of Dr. Darwin's poetry. Among all your quaint readings did you ever light upon Walton's "Complete Angler"? I asked you the question once before; it breathes the very spirit of innocence, purity, and simplicity of heart; there are many choice old verses interspersed in it; it would sweeten a man's temper at any time to read it; it would Christianise every discordant angry passion; pray make yourself acquainted with it. Have you made it up with Southey yet? Surely one of you two must have been a very silly fellow, and the other not much better, to fall out like boarding-school misses; kiss, shake hands, and make it up? When will he be delivered of his new epic? _Madoc_ I think, is to be the name of it; though that is a name not familiar to my ears. What progress do you make in your hymns? What Review are you connected with? If with any, why do you delay to notice White's book? You are justly offended at its profaneness; but surely you have undervalued its _wit_, or you would have been more loud in its praises. Do not you think that in _Slender's_ death and madness there is most exquisite humour, mingled with tenderness, that is irresistible, truly Shakspearian? Be more full in your mention of it. Poor fellow, he has (very undeservedly) lost by it; nor do I see that it is likely ever to reimburse him the charge of printing, etc. Give it a lift, if you can. I suppose you know that Allen's wife is dead, and he, just situated as he was, never the better, as the worldly people say, for her death, her money with her children being taken off his hands. I am just now wondering whether you will ever come to town again, Coleridge; 'tis among the things I dare not hope, but can't help wishing. For myself, I can live in the midst of town luxury and superfluity, and not long for them, and I can't see why your children might not hereafter do the same. Remember, you are not in Arcadia when you are in the west of England, and they may catch infection from the world without visiting the metropolis. But you seem to have set your heart upon this same cottage plan; and God prosper you in the experiment! I am at a loss for more to write about; so 'tis as well that I am arrived at the bottom of my paper. God love you, Coleridge!--Our best loves and tenderest wishes await on you, your Sara, and your little one. C. L. [Bowles's poem was "Hope, an allegorical sketch on slowly recovering from sickness." See note on pages 78 and 79. _The Pursuits of Literature_, was a literary satire in the form of dialogues in verse, garnished with very outspoken notes, by Thomas James Mathias (1754?-1835), which appeared between 1794 and 1797. Southey had returned from Portugal in the summer, when the quarrel between Coleridge and himself revived; but about the time of Hartley's birth some kind of a reconciliation was patched up. _Madoc_, as it happened, was not published until 1805, although in its first form it was completed in 1797. Writing to Charles Lloyd, sen., in December, 1796, Coleridge says that he gives his evenings to his engagements with the _Critical Review_ and _New Monthly Magazine_. This is the passage in Falstaff's Letters describing Blender's death:-- DAVY TO SHALLOW Master Abram is dead, gone, your Worship--dead! Master Abram! Oh! good your Worship, a's gone.--A' never throve, since a' came from Windsor-- 'twas his death. I call'd him a rebel, your Worship--but a' was all subject--a' was subject to any babe, as much as a King--a' turn'd, like as it were the latter end of a lover's lute--a' was all peace and resignment--a' took delight in nothing but his book of songs and sonnets--a' would go to the Stroud side under the large beech tree, and sing, till 'twas quite pity of our lives to mark him; for his chin grew as long as a muscle--Oh! a' sung his soul and body quite away--a' was lank as any greyhound, and had such a scent! I hid his love-songs among your Worship's law-books; for I thought if a' could not get at them, it might be to his quiet; but a' snuff'd 'em out in a moment.--Good your Worship, have the wise woman of Brentfort secured--Master Abram may have been conjured--Peter Simple says, a' never look'd up, after a' sent to the wise woman--Marry, a' was always given to look down afore his elders; a' might do it, a' was given to it--your Worship knows it; but then 'twas peak and pert with him--a' was a man again, marry, in the turn of his heel.--A' died, your Worship, just about one, at the crow of the cock.--I thought how it was with him; for a' talk'd as quick, aye, marry, as glib as your Worship; and a' smiled, and look'd at his own nose, and call'd "Sweet Ann Page." I ask'd him if a' would eat--so a' bad us commend him to his Cousin Robert (a' never call'd your Worship so before) and bade us get hot meat, for a' would not say nay to Ann again.[*]--But a' never liv'd to touch it--a' began all in a moment to sing "Lovers all, a Madrigal." 'Twas the only song Master Abram ever learnt out of book, and clean by heart, your Worship--and so a' sung, and smiled, and look'd askew at his own nose, and sung, and sung on, till his breath waxed shorter, and shorter, and shorter, and a' fell into a struggle and died. I beseech your Worship to think he was well tended--I look'd to him, your Worship, late and soon, and crept at his heel all day long, an it had been any fallow dog--but I thought a' could never live, for a' did so sing, and then a' never drank with it--I knew 'twas a bad sign--yea, a' sung, your Worship, marry, without drinking a drop. [Footnote: Vide "Merry Wives of Windsor." Latter part of the 1st Scene, 1st Act.]] LETTER 13 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE Nov. 8th, 1796. My Brother, my Friend,--I am distrest for you, believe me I am; not so much for your painful, troublesome complaint, which, I trust, is only for a time, as for those anxieties which brought it on, and perhaps even now may be nursing its malignity. Tell me, dearest of my friends, is your mind at peace, or has anything, yet unknown to me, happened to give you fresh disquiet, and steal from you all the pleasant dreams of future rest? Are you still (I fear you are) far from being comfortably settled? Would to God it were in my power to contribute towards the bringing of you into the haven where you would be! But you are too well skilled in the philosophy of consolation to need my humble tribute of advice; in pain and in sickness, and in all manner of disappointments, I trust you have that within you which shall speak peace to your mind. Make it, I entreat you, one of your puny comforts, that I feel for you, and share all your griefs with you. I feel as if I were troubling you about _little_ things; now I am going to resume the subject of our last two letters, but it may divert us both from unpleasanter feelings to make such matters, in a manner, of importance. Without further apology, then, it was not that I did not relish, that I did not in my heart thank you for, those little pictures of your feelings which you lately sent me, if I neglected to mention them. You may remember you had said much the same things before to me on the same subject in a former letter, and I considered those last verses as only the identical thoughts better clothed; either way (in prose or verse) such poetry must be welcome to me. I love them as I love the Confessions of Rousseau, and for the same reason: the same frankness, the same openness of heart, the same disclosure of all the most hidden and delicate affections of the mind: they make me proud to be thus esteemed worthy of the place of friend-confessor, brother-confessor, to a man like Coleridge. This last is, I acknowledge, language too high for friendship; but it is also, I declare, too sincere for flattery. Now, to put on stilts, and talk magnificently about trifles--I condescend, then, to your counsel, Coleridge, and allow my first Sonnet (sick to death am I to make mention of my sonnets, and I blush to be so taken up with them, indeed I do)--I allow it to run thus, "_Fairy Land_" &c. &c., as I [? you] last wrote it. The Fragments I now send you I want printed to get rid of 'em; for, while they stick burr-like to my memory, they tempt me to go on with the idle trade of versifying, which I long--most sincerely I speak it--I long to leave off, for it is unprofitable to my soul; I feel it is; and these questions about words, and debates about alterations, take me off, I am conscious, from the properer business of _my_ life. Take my sonnets once for all, and do not propose any re-amendments, or mention them again in any shape to me, I charge you. I blush that my mind can consider them as things of any worth. And pray admit or reject these fragments, as you like or dislike them, without ceremony. Call 'em Sketches, Fragments, or what you will, but do not entitle any of my _things_ Love Sonnets, as I told you to call 'em; 'twill only make me look little in my own eyes; for it is a passion of which I retain _nothing_; 'twas a weakness, concerning which I may say, in the words of Petrarch (whose life is now open before me), "if it drew me out of some vices, it also prevented the growth of many virtues, filling me with the love of the creature rather than the Creator, which is the death of the soul." Thank God, the folly has left me for ever; not even a review of my love verses renews one wayward wish in me; and if I am at all solicitous to trim 'em out in their best apparel, it is because they are to make their appearance in good company. Now to my fragments. Lest you have lost my Grandame, she shall be one. 'Tis among the few verses I ever wrote (that to Mary is another) which profit me in the recollection. God love her,--and may we two never love each other less! These, Coleridge, are the few sketches I have thought worth preserving; how will they relish thus detached? Will you reject all or any of them? They are thine: do whatsoever thou listest with them. My eyes ache with writing long and late, and I wax wondrous sleepy; God bless you and yours, me and mine! Good night. C. LAMB. I will keep my eyes open reluctantly a minute longer to tell you, that I love you for those simple, tender, heart-flowing lines with which you conclude your last, and in my eyes best, sonnet (so you call 'em), "So, for the mother's sake, the child was dear, And dearer was the mother for the child." Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge, or rather, I should say, banish elaborateness; for simplicity springs spontaneous from the heart, and carries into daylight its own modest buds and genuine, sweet, and clear flowers of expression. I allow no hot-beds in the gardens of Parnassus. I am unwilling to go to bed, and leave my sheet unfilled (a good piece of night-work for an idle body like me), so will finish with begging you to send me the earliest account of your complaint, its progress, or (as I hope to God you will be able to send me) the tale of your recovery, or at least amendment. My tenderest remembrances to your Sara.-- Once more good night. [Coleridge, on November 2, had begun to suffer from his lifelong enemy, neuralgia, the result largely of worry concerning his future, so many of his projects having broken down. He was subduing it with laudanum--the beginning of that fatal habit. We do not know what were the verses which Coleridge had sent Lamb, possibly the three sonnets on the birth of Hartley, the third of which is referred to below. Lamb's decision in September to say or hear no more of his own poetry here breaks down. The reference to the Fairy Land sonnet is only partially explained by the parallel version which I printed on page 25; for "Fairy Land" was Coleridge's version. Either Lamb had made a new version, substituting "Fairy Land" for "Faery," or he wrote, "I allow it to run thus: Fairy Land, &c., &c., as _you_ last wrote it." When reprinted, however, it ran as Lamb originally wished. The other fragments were those afterwards included in Coleridge's _Poems_, second edition, 1797. "Love Sonnets." Lamb changed his mind again on this subject, and yet again. Coleridge's last of the three sonnets on the birth of Hartley was entitled "Sonnet to a Friend [Charles Lloyd] who asked how I felt when the Nurse first presented my Infant to me." It closed with the lines which Lamb copies.] LETTER 14 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE Nov. 14th, 1796. Coleridge, I love you for dedicating your poetry to Bowles. Genius of the sacred fountain of tears, it was he who led you gently by the hand through all this valley of weeping, showed you the dark green yew trees and the willow shades where, by the fall of waters, you might indulge an uncomplaining melancholy, a delicious regret for the past, or weave fine visions of that awful future, "When all the vanities of life's brief day Oblivion's hurrying hand hath swept away, And all its sorrows, at the awful blast Of the archangel's trump, are but as shadows past." I have another sort of dedication in my head for my few things, which I want to know if you approve of, and can insert. I mean to inscribe them to my sister. It will be unexpected, and it will give her pleasure; or do you think it will look whimsical at all? As I have not spoke to her about it, I can easily reject the idea. But there is a monotony in the affections, which people living together or, as we do now, very frequently seeing each other, are apt to give in to: a sort of indifference in the expression of kindness for each other, which demands that we should sometimes call to our aid the trickery of surprise. Do you publish with Lloyd or without him? in either case my little portion may come last, and after the fashion of orders to a country correspondent I will give directions how I should like to have 'em done. The title-page to stand thus:-- POEMS, CHIEFLY LOVE SONNETS BY CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE. Under this title the following motto, which, for want of room, I put over leaf, and desire you to insert, whether you like it or no. May not a gentleman choose what arms, mottoes, or armorial bearings the herald will give him leave, without consulting his republican friend, who might advise none? May not a publican put up the sign of the Saracen's Head, even though his undiscerning neighbour should prefer, as more genteel, the Cat and Gridiron? (MOTTO.) "This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, When my first fire knew no adulterate incense, Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, In the best language my true tongue could tell me, And all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, I sued and served. Long did I love this lady." MASSINGER. THE DEDICATION. * * * * * THE FEW FOLLOWING POEMS, CREATURES OF THE FANCY AND THE FEELING IN LIFE'S MORE VACANT HOURS, PRODUCED, FOR THE MOST PART, BY LOVE IN IDLENESS, ARE, WITH ALL A BROTHER'S FONDNESS, INSCRIBED TO MARY ANN LAMB, THE AUTHOR'S BEST FRIEND AND SISTER. * * * * * This is the pomp and paraphernalia of parting, with which I take my leave of a passion which has reigned so royally (so long) within me; thus, with its trappings of laureatship, I fling it off, pleased and satisfied with myself that the weakness troubles me no longer. I am wedded, Coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father. Oh! my friend, I think sometimes, could I recall the days that are past, which among them should I choose? not those "merrier days," not the "pleasant days of hope," not "those wanderings with a fair hair'd maid," which I have so often and so feelingly regretted, but the days, Coleridge, of a _mother's_ fondness for her _school-boy_. What would I give to call her back to earth for _one_ day, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper which, from time to time, have given her gentle spirit pain; and the day, my friend, I trust will come; there will be "time enough" for kind offices of love, if "Heaven's eternal year" be ours. Hereafter, her meek spirit shall not reproach me. Oh, my friend, cultivate the filial feelings! and let no man think himself released from the kind "charities" of relationship: these shall give him peace at the last; these are the best foundation for every species of benevolence. I rejoice to hear, by certain channels, that you, my friend, are reconciled with all your relations. 'Tis the most kindly and natural species of love, and we have all the associated train of early feelings to secure its strength and perpetuity. Send me an account of your health; _indeed_ I am solicitous about you. God love you and yours. C. LAMB. [It seems to have been Coleridge's intention to dedicate the second edition of his _Poems_ to Bowles; but he changed his mind and dedicated it to his brother, the Rev. George Coleridge. A sonnet to Bowles was included in the volume, a kind of sub-dedication of the other sonnets, but it had appeared also in the 1796 volume. Lamb's instructions concerning his share in the 1797 volume were carried out, except that the sub-title was omitted. The quotations "merrier days" ("happier days") and "wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid" are from Lamb's own sonnets; those in lines 9 and 10 from Dryden's Elegy on Mrs. Killigrew. Coleridge had paid in the summer a long-deferred visit of reconciliation to his family at Ottery St. Mary.] LETTER 15 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [P.M. December 2, 1796 (Friday).] I have delay'd writing thus long, not having by me my copy of your poems, which I had lent. I am not satisfied with all your intended omissions. Why omit 40: 63: 84: above all, let me protest strongly against your rejecting the "Complaint of Ninathoma," 86. The words, I acknowledge, are Ossian's, but you have added to them the "Music of Caril." If a vicarious substitute be wanting, sacrifice (and 'twill be a piece of self-denial _too_) the Epitaph on an Infant, of which its Author seems so proud, so tenacious. Or, if your heart be set on _perpetuating_ the four-line-wonder, I'll tell you what [to] do: sell the copywright of it at once to a country statuary; commence in this manner Death's prime poet laureat; and let your verses be adopted in every village round instead of those hitherto famous ones "Afflictions sore long time I bore, Physicians were in vain". I have seen your last very beautiful poem in the Monthly Magazine--write thus, and you most generally have written thus, and I shall never quarrel with you about simplicity. With regard to my lines "Laugh all that weep," etc.--I would willingly sacrifice them, but my portion of the volume is so ridiculously little, that in honest truth I can't spare them. As things are, I have very slight pretensions to participate in the title-page.--White's book is at length reviewed in the Monthly; was it your doing, or Dyer's to whom I sent him? Or rather do you not write in the Critical? for I observed, in an Article of this Month's a line quoted out of _that_ sonnet on Mrs. Siddons "with eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight"--and a line from _that_ sonnet would not readily have occurred to a stranger. That sonnet, Coleridge, brings afresh to my mind the time when you wrote those on Bowles, Priestly, Burke--'twas 2 Christmases ago, and in that nice little smoky room at the Salutation, which is even now continually presenting itself to my recollection, with all its associated train of pipes, tobacco, Egghot, welch Rabbits, metaphysics and Poetry. Are we NEVER to meet again? How differently I am circumstanced now--I have never met with any one, never shall meet with any one, who could or can compensate me for the loss of your society--I have no one to talk all these matters about to--I lack friends, I lack books to supply their absence. But these complaints ill become me: let me compare my present situation, prospects, and state of mind, with what they were but 2 months back--_but_ 2 months. O my friend, I am in danger of forgetting the awful lessons then presented to me--remind me of them; remind me of my Duty. Talk seriously with me when you do write. I thank you, from my heart I thank you, for your sollicitude about my Sister. She is quite well,--but must not, I fear, come to live with us yet a good while. In the first place, because at present it would hurt her, and hurt my father, for them to be together: secondly from a regard to the world's good report, for I fear, I fear, tongues will be busy _whenever_ that event takes place. Some have hinted, one man has prest it on me, that she should be in perpetual confinement--what she hath done to deserve, or the necessity of such an hardship, I see not; do you? I am starving at the India house, near 7 o'clock without my dinner, and so it has been and will be almost all the week. I get home at night o'erwearied, quite faint,--and then to CARDS with my father, who will not let me enjoy a meal in peace--but I must conform to my situation, and I hope I am, for the most part, not unthankful. I am got home at last, and, after repeated games at Cribbage have got my father's leave to write awhile: with difficulty got it, for when I expostulated about playing any more, he very aptly replied, "If you won't play with me, you might as well not come home at all." The argument was unanswerable, and I set to afresh. I told you, I do not approve of your omissions. Neither do I quite coincide with you in your arrangements: I have not time to point out a better, and I suppose some self-associations of your own have determined their place as they now stand. Your beginning indeed with the Joan of Arc lines I coincide entirely with: I love a splendid Outset, a magnificent Portico; and the Diapason is Grand--the Religious Musings-- when I read them, I think how poor, how unelevated, unoriginal, my blank verse is, "Laugh all that weep" especially, where the subject demanded a grandeur of conception: and I ask what business they have among yours--but Friendship covereth a multitude of defects. Why omit 73? At all events, let me plead for those former pages,--40. 63. 84. 86. I should like, for old acquaintance sake, to spare 62. 119 would have made a figure among _Shenstone_'s Elegies: _you_ may admit it or reject, as you please. In the Man of Ross let the old line stand as it used: "wine-cheer'd moments" much better than the lame present one. 94, change the harsh word "foodful" into "dulcet" or, if not too harsh, "nourishing." 91, "moveless": is that as good as "moping"?--8, would it not read better omitting those 2 lines last but 6 about Inspiration? I want some loppings made in the Chatterton; it wants but a little to make it rank among the finest irregular Lyrics I ever read. Have you time and inclination to go to work upon it--or is it too late--or do you think it needs none? Don't reject those verses in one of your Watchmen--"Dear native brook," &c.--nor, I think, those last lines you sent me, in which "all effortless" is without doubt to be preferred to "inactive." If I am writing more than ordinarily dully, 'tis that I am stupified with a tooth-ache. 37, would not the concluding lines of the 1st paragraph be well omitted--& it go on "So to sad sympathies" &c.? In 40, if you retain it, "wove" the learned Toil is better than "urge," which spoils the personification. Hang it, do not omit 48. 52. 53. What you do retain tho', call sonnets for God's sake, and not effusions,--spite of your ingenious anticipation of ridicule in your Preface. The last 5 lines of 50 are too good to be lost, the rest is not much worth. My tooth becomes importunate--I must finish. Pray, pray, write to me: if you knew with what an anxiety of joy I open such a long packet as you last sent me, you would not grudge giving a few minutes now and then to this intercourse (the only intercourse, I fear we two shall ever have), this conversation, with your friend--such I boast to be called. God love you and yours. Write to me when you move, lest I direct wrong. Has Sara no poems to publish? Those lines 129 are probably too light for the volume where the Religious Musings are--but I remember some very beautiful lines addrest by somebody at Bristol to somebody at London. God bless you once more. C. LAMB. Thursday Night. [This letter refers to the preparation of Coleridge's second edition of his _Poems_. "Why omit 40, 63, 84?"--these were "Absence," "To the Autumnal Moon" and the imitation from Ossian. The "Epitaph on an Infant" ran thus:-- Ere Sin could blight, or Sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed And bade it blossom there. Lamb applied the first two lines to a sucking pig in his _Elia_ essay on "Roast Pig" many years later. The old epitaph runs:-- Afflictions sore long time I bore, Physicians were in vain; Till Heaven did please my woes to ease, And take away my pain. Coleridge's very beautiful poem in the _Monthly Magazine_ (for October) was "Reflections on Entering into Active Life," beginning, "Low was our pretty cot." Lamb's lines, "Laugh all that weep," I cannot find. We learn later that they were in blank verse. _Falstaff's Letters_ was reviewed in the _Monthly Review_ for November, 1796, very favourably. The article was quite possibly by Coleridge. The sonnet on Mrs. Siddons was written by Lamb and Coleridge together when Coleridge was in London at the end of 1794, and it formed one of a series of sonnets on eminent persons printed in the _Morning Chronicle_, of which those on Bowles, Priestley and Burke were others. The quotation from it was in an article in the November _Critical Review_ on the "Musae Etonenses." "One man has prest it on me." There is reason to suppose that this was John Lamb, the brother. As it happened Coleridge did not begin his second edition with the "Joan of Arc" lines, but with the "Ode to the New Year." The "Religious Musings" brought Coleridge's part of the volume to a close. The poem on page 73 was "In the Manner of Spenser." The poems on pages 40, 63, 84, we know; that on page 86 was "The Complaint of Ninathoma." "To Genevieve" was on page 62. That on page 119 was "To a Friend in Answer to a Melancholy Letter." Coleridge never restored the phrase "wine-cheer'd moments" to "The Man of Ross." He did not change "foodful" to "dulcet" in "To an Infant." He did not alter "moveless" to "moping" in "The Young Ass." He left the Inspiration passage as it was in the "Monody on Chatterton." Not that he disregarded all Lamb's advice, as a comparison of the 1796 and 1797 editions of the _Poems_ will show. The poem "Dear native brook" was the sonnet "To the River Otter." Coleridge took Lamb's counsel. The poem containing the phrase "all effortless" was that "Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune" (Charles Lloyd). Coleridge did not include it. The poem on page 37 was "To a Young Lady with a Poem on the French Revolution." Nos. 48, 52 and 53 were the sonnets to Priestley, Kosciusko and Fayette. The last five lines of 50 were in the sonnet to Sheridan. The lines on page 129 were Sara's verses "The Silver Thimble." None of these were reprinted in 1797. The beautiful lines addressed from somebody at Bristol to somebody at London were those from Sara Coleridge to Lamb, referred to on page 33. Coleridge persisted in the use of the word "effusion".] LETTER 16 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Dated at end: Dec. 5, 1796.] _To a young Lady going out to India_ Hard is the heart, that does not melt with Ruth When care sits cloudy on the brow of Youth, When bitter griefs the _female_ bosom swell And Beauty meditates a fond farewell To her loved native land, and early home, In search of peace thro' "stranger climes to roam."[*] The Muse, with glance prophetic, sees her stand, Forsaken, silent Lady, on the strand Of farthest India, sickening at the war Of waves slow-beating, dull upon the shore Stretching, at gloomy intervals, her eye O'er the wide waters vainly to espy The long-expected bark, in which to find Some tidings of a world she has left behind. In that sad hour shall start the gushing tear For scenes her childhood loved, now doubly dear, In that sad hour shall frantic memory awake Pangs of remorse for slighted England's sake, And for the sake of many a tender tye Of Love or Friendship pass'd too lightly by. Unwept, unpitied, midst an alien race, And the cold looks of many a stranger face, How will her poor heart bleed, and chide the day, That from her country took her far away. [Footnote: Bowles. ["The African," line 27.]] [_Lamb has struck his pen through the foregoing poem._] Coleridge, the above has some few decent [lines in] it, and in the paucity of my portion of your volume may as well be inserted; I would also wish to retain the following if only to perpetuate the memory of so exquisite a pleasure as I have often received at the performance of the tragedy of Douglas, when Mrs. Siddons has been the Lady Randolph. Both pieces may be inserted between the sonnets and the sketches--in which latter, the last leaf but one of them, I beg you to alter the words "pain and want" to "pain and grief," this last being a more familiar and ear-satisfying combination. Do it I beg of you. To understand the following, if you are not acquainted with the play, you should know that on the death of Douglas his mother threw herself down a rock; and that at that time Scotland was busy in repelling the Danes. THE TOMB OF DOUGLAS _See the Tragedy of that name_ When her son, her Douglas died, To the steep rock's fearful side Fast the frantic mother hied. O'er her blooming warrior dead Many a tear did Scotland shed, And shrieks of long and loud lament From her Grampian hills she sent. Like one awakening from a trance, She met the shock of Lochlin's lance. Denmark On her rude invader foe Return'd an hundred fold the blow. Drove the taunting spoiler home: Mournful thence she took her way To do observance at the tomb, Where the son of Douglas [lay], Round about the tomb did go In solemn state and order slow, Silent pace, and black attire, Earl, or Knight, or good Esquire, Who e'er by deeds of valour done In battle had high honors won; Whoe'er in their pure veins could trace The blood of Douglas' noble race. With them the flower of minstrels came, And to their cunning harps did frame In doleful numbers piercing rhimes, Such strains as in the olden times Had soothed the spirit of Fingal Echoing thro' his fathers' Hall. "Scottish maidens, drop a tear O'er the beauteous Hero's bier. Brave youth and comely 'bove compare; All golden shone his burnish'd hair; Valor and smiling courtesy Played in the sunbeams of his eye. Closed are those eyes that shone so fair And stain'd with blood his yellow hair. Scottish maidens drop a tear O'er the beauteous Hero's bier." "Not a tear, I charge you, shed For the false Glenalvon dead; Unpitied let Glenalvon lie, Foul stain to arms and chivalry." "Behind his back the traitor came, And Douglas died without his fame." [_Lamb has struck his pen through the lines against which I have put an asterisk_.] *"Scottish maidens, drop a tear, *O'er the beauteous hero's bier." *"Bending warrior, o'er thy grave, Young light of Scotland early spent! Thy country thee shall long lament, *_Douglas 'Beautiful and Brave'!_ And oft to after times shall tell, _In Hopes sweet prime my Hero fell_." [_Lamb has struck his pen through the remainder_.] "Thane or Lordling, think no scorn Of the poor and lowly-born. In brake obscure or lonely dell The simple flowret prospers well; The _gentler_ virtues cottage-bred, omitted Thrive best beneath the humble shed. Low-born Hinds, opprest, obscure, Ye who patiently endure To bend the knee and bow the head, And thankful eat _another's bread_ Well may ye mourn your best friend dead, Till Life with Grief together end: He would have been the poor man's friend." "Bending, warrior, o'er thy grave, Young light of Scotland early spent! omitted Thy country thee shall long lament, Douglas, '_Beautiful and Brave_'! And oft to after times shall tell, omitted _In life's young prime my Hero fell_." [Sidenote: Is "_morbid_ wantonness of woe" a good and allowable phrase?] At length I have done with verse making. Not that I relish other people's poetry less,--theirs comes from 'em without effort, mine is the difficult operation of a brain scanty of ideas, made more difficult by disuse. I have been reading the "Task" with fresh delight. I am glad you love Cowper. I could forgive a man for not enjoying Milton, but I would not call that man my friend, who should be offended with the "divine chit-chat of Cowper." Write to me.--God love you and yours, C. L. [The name of the young lady going out to India is not known; the verses were printed in the _Monthly Magazine_ for March, 1797, but not in Coleridge's _Poems_, 1797. "The Tomb of Douglas" was included in that volume. The poem in which the alteration "pain and want" was to be made (but was not made, or was made and cancelled later) was "Fancy Employed on Divine Subjects." The "divine chit-chat of Cowper" was Coleridge's own phrase. It is a pretty circumstance that Lamb and Cowper now share (with Keats) a memorial in Edmonton church.] * * * * * LETTER 17 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Little Queen Street, Night of Dec. 9th,] 1796. I am sorry I cannot now relish your poetical present as thoroughly as I feel it deserves; but I do not the less thank Lloyd and you for it. In truth, Coleridge, I am perplexed, & at times almost cast down. I am beset with perplexities. The old hag of a wealthy relation, who took my aunt off our hands in the beginning of trouble, has found out that she is "indolent and mulish"--I quote her own words--and that her attachment to us is so strong that she can never be happy apart. The Lady, with delicate Irony, remarks that, if I am not an Hypocrite, I shall rejoyce to receive her again; and that it will be a means of making me more fond of home to have so dear a friend to come home to! The fact is, she is jealous of my aunt's bestowing any kind recollections on us, while she enjoys the patronage of her roof. She says she finds it inconsistent with her own "ease and tranquility" to keep her any longer, & in fine summons me to fetch her home. Now, much as I should rejoyce to transplant the poor old creature from the chilling air of such patronage, yet I know how straitend we are already, how unable already to answer any demand which sickness or any extraordinary expence may make. I know this, and all unused as I am to struggle with perplexities I am somewhat nonplusd, to say no worse. This prevents me from a thorough relish of what Lloyd's kindness and yours have furnished me with. I thank you tho from my heart, and feel myself not quite alone in the earth. Before I offer, what alone I have to offer, a few obvious remarks on the poems you sent me, I can[not] but notice the odd coincidence of two young men, in one age, carolling their grandmothers. Love--what L[loyd] calls "the feverish and romantic tye"--hath too long domineerd over all the charities of home: the dear domestic tyes of father, brother, husband. The amiable and benevolent Cowper has a beautiful passage in his "Task,"--some natural and painful reflections on his deceased parents: and Hayley's sweet lines to his mother are notoriously the best things he ever wrote. Cowper's lines, some of them, are-- "How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire; a mother, too. That softer name, perhaps more gladly still, Might he demand them at the gates of death." I cannot but smile to see my Granny so gayly deck'd forth: tho', I think, whoever altered "thy" praises to "her" praises, "thy" honoured memory to "her" honoured memory, did wrong--they best exprest my feelings. There is a pensive state of recollection, in which the mind is disposed to apostrophise the departed objects of its attachment, and, breaking loose from grammatical precision, changes from the 1st to the 3rd, and from the 3rd to the 1st person, just as the random fancy or the feeling directs. Among Lloyd's sonnets, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 11th, are eminently beautiful. I think him too lavish of his expletives; the _do's_ and _did's_, when they occur too often, bring a quaintness with them along with their simplicity, or rather air of antiquity which the patrons of them seem desirous of conveying. The lines on Friday are very pleasing--"Yet calls itself in pride of Infancy woman or man," &c., "affection's tottering troop"--are prominent beauties. Another time, when my mind were more at ease, I could be more particular in my remarks, and I would postpone them now, only I want some diversion of mind. The _Melancholy Man_ is a charming piece of poetry, only the "whys" (with submission) are too many. Yet the questions are too good to be any of 'em omitted. For those lines of yours, page 18, omitted in magazine, I think the 3 first better retain'd--the 3 last, which are somewhat simple in the most affronting sense of the word, better omitted: to this my taste directs me--I have no claim to prescribe to you. "Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies" is an exquisite line, but you knew _that_ when you wrote 'em, and I trifle in pointing such out. Tis altogether the sweetest thing to me you ever wrote--tis all honey. "No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart, Blest hour, it was a Luxury to be"--I recognise feelings, which I may taste again, if tranquility has not taken his flight for ever, and I will not believe but I shall be happy, very happy again. The next poem to your friend is very beautiful: need I instance the pretty fancy of "the rock's collected tears"--or that original line "pour'd all its healthful greenness on the soul"?--let it be, since you asked me, "as neighbouring fountains each reflect the whole"--tho' that is somewhat harsh; indeed the ending is not so finish'd as the rest, which if you omit in your forthcoming edition, you will do the volume wrong, and the very binding will cry out. Neither shall you omit the 2 following poems. "The hour when we shall meet again," is fine fancy, tis true, but fancy catering in the Service of the feeling--fetching from her stores most splendid banquets to satisfy her. Do not, do not omit it. Your sonnet to the _River Otter_ excludes those equally beautiful lines, which deserve not to be lost, "as the tired savage," &c., and I prefer that copy in your _Watchman_. I plead for its preference. Another time, I may notice more particularly Lloyd's, Southey's, Dermody's Sonnets. I shrink from them now: my teazing lot makes me too confused for a clear judgment of things, too selfish for sympathy; and these ill-digested, meaningless remarks I have imposed on myself as a task, to lull reflection, as well as to show you I did not neglect reading your valuable present. Return my acknowledgments to Lloyd; you two appear to be about realising an Elysium upon earth, and, no doubt, I shall be happier. Take my best wishes. Remember me most affectionately to Mrs. C., and give little David Hartley--God bless its little heart!--a kiss for me. Bring him up to know the meaning of his Christian name, and what that name (imposed upon him) will demand of him. C. LAMB. God love you! I write, for one thing, to say that I shall write no more till you send me word where you are, for you are so soon to move. My sister is pretty well, thank God. We think of you very often. God bless you: continue to be my correspondent, and I will strive to fancy that this world is _not_ "all barrenness." [The poetical present, as the late Mr. Dykes Campbell pointed out in _The Atheneum_, June 13, 1891, consisted of Lloyd's _Poems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer_, to which Lamb had contributed "The Grandame," and of a little privately-printed collection of poems by Coleridge and Lloyd, which they had intended to publish, but did not. The pamphlet has completely vanished. In addition to these two works the poetical present also comprised another privately-printed collection, a little pamphlet of twenty-eight sonnets which Coleridge had arranged for the purpose of binding up with those of Bowles. It included three of Bowles', four of Coleridge's, four of Lamb's, four of Southey's, and the remainder by Dermody, Lloyd, Charlotte Smith, and others. A copy of this pamphlet is preserved in the South Kensington Museum. "The poems you sent me." This would be Lloyd's _Poems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer_. When Lamb reprinted "The Grandame" in Coleridge's second edition, 1797, he put back the original text. I now take up Mr. Dykes Campbell's comments on the letter, where it branches off from the _Priscilla Farmer_ volume to the vanished pamphlet of poems by Coleridge and Lloyd:-- Beginning with Lloyd's "Melancholy Man" (first printed in the Carlisle volume of 1795), he [Lamb] passes to Coleridge's poem on leaving the honeymoon-cottage at Clevedon, "altogether the sweetest thing to me," says Lamb, "you ever wrote." The verses had appeared in the _Monthly Magazine_ two months before.... That Lamb's counsel was followed to some extent may be gathered from a comparison between the text of the magazine and that of 1797:-- "Once I saw (Hallowing his sabbath-day by quietness) A wealthy son of Commerce saunter by, Bristowa's citizen: he paus'd, and look'd, With a pleas'd sadness, and gazed all around, Then ey'd our Cottage, and gaz'd round again, And said, _it was a blessed little place!_ And we _were_ blessed!" _Monthly Magazine._ "Once I saw (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) A wealthy son of Commerce saunter by, Bristowa's citizen. Methought it calm'd His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse With wiser feelings: for he paus'd, and look'd With a pleas'd sadness, and gaz'd all around, Then ey'd our cottage, and gaz'd round again, And sigh'd and said, _it was a blessed place._ And we _were_ blessed." _Poems_, 1797. It will be observed that Coleridge in 1797 inserted some lines which were not in the magazine. They were probably restored from a MS. copy Lamb had previously seen, and if Coleridge did not cancel all that Lamb wisely counselled, he certainly drew the sting of the "affronting simplicity" by removing the word "little." The comical ambiguity of the Bristol man's exclamation as first reported could hardly have failed to drive Lamb's dull care away for a moment or two. [In] "the next poem to your friend," ... [Lamb is] speaking of Coleridge's lines "To Charles Lloyd"--those beginning "A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep." In the "forthcoming edition" the poet improved a little the barely tolerated line, making it read,-- "As neighb'ring fountains image, each the whole," but did not take Lamb's hint to omit the five which closed the poem. Lamb, however, got his way--perhaps took it--when the verses were reprinted in 1803, in the volume he saw through the press for Coleridge. "Neither shall you omit the 2 following poems. 'The hour when we shall meet again' is [only?] a fine fancy, 'tis true, but fancy catering in the service of the feeling--fetching from her stores most splendid banquets to satisfy her. Do not, do not, omit it." So wrote Lamb of these somewhat slender verses, but his friend had composed them "during illness and in absence," and Lamb in his own heart-sickness and loneliness detected the reality which underlay the conventionality of expression. The critic slept, and even when he was awake again in 1803 was fain to let the lines be reprinted with only the concession of their worst couplet:-- "While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek." The second of the "2 following poems" was Coleridge's "Sonnet to the River Otter." The version then before him "excludes," complains Lamb, "those equally beautiful lines which deserve not to be lost, 'as the tir'd savage,' &c., and I prefer the copy in your _Watchman_. I plead for its preference." This pleading ... was not responded to in the way Lamb wanted, but in the appendix to the 1797 volume Coleridge printed the whole of the poem on an "Autumnal Evening," to which the "tir'd savage" properly belonged.... "Lloyd's, Southey's, Dermody's Sonnets." Lamb here refers to the third portion of the poetical present--the twenty-eight sonnets to be bound up with those of Bowles. Thomas Dermody (1775-1802) was an Irish poet of squalidly dissolute life. A collection of his verses appeared in 1792.] LETTER 18 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE Dec. 10th, 1796. I had put my letter into the post rather hastily, not expecting to have to acknowledge another from you so soon. This morning's present has made me alive again: my last night's epistle was childishly querulous; but you have put a little life into me, and I will thank you for your remembrance of me, while my sense of it is yet warm; for if I linger a day or two I may use the same phrase of acknowledgment, or similar; but the feeling that dictates it now will be gone. I shall send you a _caput mortuum_, not a _cor vivens_. Thy Watchman's, thy bellman's, verses, I do retort upon thee, thou libellous varlet,--why, you cried the hours yourself, and who made you so proud? But I submit, to show my humility, most implicitly to your dogmas. I reject entirely the copy of verses you reject. With regard to my leaving off versifying, you have said so many pretty things, so many fine compliments, ingeniously decked out in the garb of sincerity, and undoubtedly springing from a present feeling somewhat like sincerity, that you might melt the most un-muse-ical soul,--did you not (now for a Rowland compliment for your profusion of Olivers)--did you not in your very epistle, by the many pretty fancies and profusion of heart displayed in it, dissuade and discourage me from attempting anything after you. At present I have not leisure to make verses, nor anything approaching to a fondness for the exercise. In the ignorant present time, who can answer for the future man? "At lovers' perjuries Jove laughs"--and poets have sometimes a disingenuous way of forswearing their occupation. This though is not my case. The tender cast of soul, sombred with melancholy and subsiding recollections, is favourable to the Sonnet or the Elegy; but from "The sainted growing woof, The teasing troubles keep aloof." The music of poesy may charm for a while the importunate teasing cares of life; but the teased and troubled man is not in a disposition to make that music. You sent me some very sweet lines relative to Burns, but it was at a time when, in my highly agitated and perhaps distorted state of mind, I thought it a duty to read 'em hastily and burn 'em. I burned all my own verses, all my book of extracts from Beaumont and Fletcher and a thousand sources: I burned a little journal of my foolish passion which I had a long time kept-- "Noting ere they past away The little lines of yesterday." I almost burned all your letters,--I did as bad, I lent 'em to a friend to keep out of my brother's sight, should he come and make inquisition into our papers, for, much as he dwelt upon your conversation while you were among us, and delighted to be with you, it has been his fashion ever since to depreciate and cry you down,--you were the cause of my madness--you and your damned foolish sensibility and melancholy--and he lamented with a true brotherly feeling that we ever met, even as the sober citizen, when his son went astray upon the mountains of Parnassus, is said to have "cursed wit and Poetry and Pope." I quote wrong, but no matter. These letters I lent to a friend to be out of the way for a season; but I have claimed them in vain, and shall not cease to regret their loss. Your packets, posterior to the date of my misfortunes, commencing with that valuable consolatory epistle, are every day accumulating--they are sacred things with me. Publish your _Burns_ when and how you like, it will be new to me,--my memory of it is very confused, and tainted with unpleasant associations. Burns was the god of my idolatry, as Bowles of yours. I am jealous of your fraternising with Bowles, when I think you relish him more than Burns or my old favourite, Cowper. But you conciliate matters when you talk of the "divine chit-chat" of the latter: by the expression I see you thoroughly relish him. I love Mrs. Coleridge for her excuses an hundredfold more dearly than if she heaped "line upon line," out-Hannah-ing Hannah More, and had rather hear you sing "Did a very little baby" by your family fire-side, than listen to you when you were repeating one of Bowles's sweetest sonnets in your sweet manner, while we two were indulging sympathy, a solitary luxury, by the fireside at the Salutation. Yet have I no higher ideas of heaven. Your company was one "cordial in this melancholy vale"--the remembrance of it is a blessing partly, and partly a curse. When I can abstract myself from things present, I can enjoy it with a freshness of relish; but it more constantly operates to an unfavourable comparison with the uninteresting; converse I always and _only_ can partake in. Not a soul loves Bowles here; scarce one has heard of Burns; few but laugh at me for reading my Testament--they talk a language I understand not: I conceal sentiments that would be a puzzle to them. I can only converse with you by letter and with the dead in their books. My sister, indeed, is all I can wish in a companion; but our spirits are alike poorly, our reading and knowledge from the self-same sources, our communication with the scenes of the world alike narrow: never having kept separate company, or any "company" "_together_"--never having read separate books, and few books _together_--what knowledge have we to convey to each other? In our little range of duties and connexions, how few sentiments can take place, without friends, with few books, with a taste for religion rather than a strong religious habit! We need some support, some leading-strings to cheer and direct us. You talk very wisely, and be not sparing of _your advice_. Continue to remember us, and to show us you do remember us: we will take as lively an interest in what concerns you and yours. All I can add to your happiness, will be sympathy. You can add to mine _more_; you can teach me wisdom. I am indeed an unreasonable correspondent; but I was unwilling to let my last night's letter go off without this qualifier: you will perceive by this my mind is easier, and you will rejoice. I do not expect or wish you to write, till you are moved; and of course shall not, till you announce to me that event, think of writing myself. Love to Mrs. Coleridge and David Hartley, and my kind remembrance to Lloyd, if he is with you. C. LAMB. I will get "Nature and Art,"--have not seen it yet--nor any of Jeremy Taylor's works. [The reference to the bellman's verses (the bellman, or watchman, used to leave verses at the houses on his beat at Easter as a reminder of his deserts) is not quite clear. Lamb evidently had submitted for the new volume some lines which Coleridge would not pass--possibly the poem in Letter No. 16. Coleridge some time before had sent to Lamb the very sweet lines relative to Burns, under the title, "To a Friend who had Declared His Intention of Writing no more Poetry." "Did a very little baby." In the Appendix to Vol. I. of the 1847 edition of the _Biog. Lit._, Sara Coleridge writes, concerning children and domestic evenings, "'Did a very little babby make a very great noise?' is the first line of a nursery song, in which Mr. Coleridge recorded some of his experience on this recondite subject." The song has disappeared. _Nature and Art_ was Mrs. Inchbald's story, published in 1796. Lamb later became an enthusiast for Jeremy Taylor.] LETTER 19 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Dated outside: Jan. 2, 1797.] Your success in the higher species of the Ode is such, as bespeaks you born for atchievements of loftier enterprize than to linger in the lowly train of songsters and sonneteurs. Sincerely I think your Ode one of the finest I have read. The opening is in the spirit of the sublimest allegory. The idea of the "skirts of the departing year, seen far onwards, waving on the wind" is one of those noble Hints at which the Reader's imagination is apt to kindle into grand conceptions. Do the words "impetuous" and "solemnize" harmonize well in the same line? Think and judge. In the 2d strophe, there seems to be too much play of fancy to be consistent with that continued elevation we are taught to expect from the strain of the foregoing. The parenthized line (by the way I abominate parentheses in this kind of poetry) at the beginning of 7th page, and indeed all that gradual description of the throes and pangs of nature in childbirth, I do not much like, and those 4 first lines,--I mean "tomb gloom anguish and languish"--rise not above mediocrity. In the Epode, your mighty genius comes again: "I marked ambition" &c. Thro' the whole Epod indeed you carry along our souls in a full spring tide of feeling and imaginat'n. Here is the "Storm of Music," as Cowper expresses it. Would it not be more abrupt "Why does the northern Conqueress stay" or "where does the northern Conqueress stay"?--this change of measure, rather than the feebler "Ah! whither", "Foul her life and dark her tomb, mighty army of the dead, dance like deathflies" &c.: here is genius, here is poetry, rapid, irresistible. The concluding line, is it not a personif: without use? "Nec deus intersit"--except indeed for rhyme sake. Would the laws of Strophe and antistrophe, which, if they are as unchangeable, I suppose are about as wise, [as] the Mede and Persian laws, admit of expunging that line altogether, and changing the preceding one to "and he, poor madman, deemd it quenchd in endless night?"--_fond_ madman or _proud_ madman if you will, but poor is more contemptuous. If I offer alterations of my own to your poetry, and admit not yours in mine, it is upon the principle of a present to a rich man being graciously accepted, and the same present to a poor man being considered as in insult. To return--The Antistrophe that follows is not inferior in grandeur or original: but is I think not faultless--e: g: How is Memory _alone_, when all the etherial multitude are there? Reflect. Again "storiedst thy sad hours" is harsh, I need not tell you, but you have gained your point in expressing much meaning in few words: "Purple locks and snow white glories" "mild Arcadians ever blooming" "seas of milk and ships of amber" these are things the Muse talks about when, to borrow H. Walpole's witty phrase, she is not finely-phrenzied, only a little light-headed, that's all. "Purple locks." They may manage things differently in fairy land, but your "golden tresses" are more to my fancy. The spirit of the Earth is a most happy conceit, and the last line is one of the luckiest I ever heard--"_and stood up beautiful_ before the cloudy seat." I cannot enough admire it. 'Tis somehow picturesque in the very sound. The 2d Antistrophe (what is the meaning of these things?) is fine and faultless (or to vary the alliteration and not diminish the affectation) beautiful and blameless. I only except to the last line as meaningless after the preceding, and useless entirely--besides, why disjoin "nature and the world" here, when you had confounded both in their pregnancy: "the common earth and nature," recollect, a little before--And there is a dismal superfluity in the unmeaning vocable "unhurld"--the worse, as it is so evidently a rhyme-fetch.--"Death like he dozes" is a prosaic conceit--indeed all the Epode as far as "brother's corse" I most heartily commend to annihilation. The enthusiast of the lyre should not be so feebly, so tediously, delineative of his own feelings; 'tis not the way to become "Master of our affections." The address to Albion is very agreeable, and concludes even beautifully: "speaks safety to his island child"--"Sworded"--epithet _I_ would change for "cruel." The immediately succeeding lines are prosaic: "mad avarice" is an unhappy combination; and "the coward distance yet with kindling pride" is not only reprehensible for the antithetical turn, but as it is a quotation: "safe distance" and "coward distance" you have more than once had recourse to before--And the Lyric Muse, in her enthusiasm, should talk the language of her country, something removed from common use, something "recent," unborrowed. The dreams of destruction "soothing her fierce solitude," are vastly grand and terrific: still you weaken the effect by that superfluous and easily-conceived parenthesis that finishes the page. The foregoing image, few minds _could_ have conceived, few tongues could have so cloath'd; "muttring destempered triumph" &c. is vastly fine. I hate imperfect beginnings and endings. Now your concluding stanza is worthy of so fine an ode. The beginning was awakening and striking; the ending is soothing and solemn--Are you serious when you ask whether you shall admit this ode? it would be strange infatuation to leave out your Chatterton; mere insanity to reject this. Unless you are fearful that the splendid thing may be a means of "eclipsing many a softer satellite" that twinkles thro' the volume. Neither omit the annex'd little poem. For my part, detesting alliterations, I should make the 1st line "Away, with this fantastic pride of woe." Well may you relish Bowles's allegory. I need only tell you, I have read, and will only add, that I dislike ambition's name _gilded_ on his helmet-cap, and that I think, among the more striking personages you notice, you omitted the _most_ striking, Remorse! "He saw the trees--the sun--then hied him to his cave again"!!! The 2d stanza of mania is superfl: the 1st was never exceeded. The 2d is too methodic: for _her_. With all its load of beauties, I am more _affected_ with the 6 first stanzas of the Elegiac poem written during sickness. Tell me your feelings. If the fraternal sentiment conveyed in the following lines will atone for the total want of anything like merit or genius in it, I desire you will print it next after my other sonnet to my sister. Friend of my earliest years, & childish days, My joys, my sorrows, thou with me hast shared Companion dear; & we alike have fared Poor pilgrims we, thro' life's unequal ways It were unwisely done, should we refuse To cheer our path, as featly as we may, Our lonely path to cheer, as travellers use With merry song, quaint tale, or roundelay. And we will sometimes talk past troubles o'er, Of mercies shewn, & all our sickness heal'd, And in his judgments God remembring love; And we will learn to praise God evermore For those "Glad tidings of great joy" reveal'd By that sooth messenger, sent from above. 1797. If you think the epithet "sooth" quaint, substitute "blest messenger." I hope you are printing my sonnets, as I directed you--particularly the 2d. "Methinks" &c. with my last added 6 lines at ye end: and all of 'em as I last made 'em. This has been a sad long letter of business, with no room in it for what honest Bunyan terms heart-work. I have just room left to congratulate you on your removal to Stowey; to wish success to all your projects; to "bid fair peace" be to that house; to send my love and best wishes, breathed warmly, after your dear Sara, and her little David Hartley. If Lloyd be with you, bid him write to me: I feel to whom I am obliged primarily for two very friendly letters I have received already from him. A dainty sweet book that "Art and Nature" is. I am at present re-re-reading Priestley's examinat of the Scotch Drs: how the Rogue strings 'em up! three together! You have no doubt read that clear, strong, humorous, most entertaining piece of reasoning. If not, procure it, and be exquisitely amused. I wish I could get more of Priestley's works. Can you recommend me to any more books, easy of access, such as circulating shops afford? God bless you and yours. Poor Mary is very unwell with a sore throat and a slight species of scarlet fever. God bless her too. Monday Morning, at Office. [Coleridge had just published in quarto his _Ode on the Departing Year_. In order that Lamb's letter may be intelligible it is necessary, I think, to give the text of this edition in full. It will be found in the Appendix to this volume. Lamb returns to his criticism in the next letter. The "annexed little poem" was that "Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune," which began, and still begins, "Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe." Bowies' allegory was the poem, "Hope, An Allegorical Sketch," recently published. The poem was not included in the 1797 volume, but was printed in the _Monthly Magazine_, October, 1797. Coleridge had moved to his cottage at Nether Stowey on the last day of 1796. Priestley's book would be _An Examination of Dr. Reid's Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles of Common Sense, Dr. Beattie's Essay on the Nature and Immutability of Truth, and Dr. Oswald's Appeal to Common Sense in Behalf of Religion_, 1774.] LETTER 20 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [P.M. Jan. 10, 1797.] Saturday. I am completely reconciled to that second strophe, and wa[i]ve all objection. In spite of the Grecian Lyrists, I persist on [in] thinking your brief personification of Madness useless; reverence forbids me to say, impertinent. Golden locks and snow white glories are as incongruous as your former, and if the great Italian painters, of whom my friend knows about as much as the man in the moon, if these great gentlemen be on your side, I see no harm in retaining the purple--the glories that I have observed to encircle the heads of saints and madonnas in those old paintings have been mostly of a dirty drab-color'd yellow--a dull gambogium. Keep your old line: it will excite a confused kind of pleasurable idea in the reader's mind, not clear enough to be called a conception, nor just enough, I think, to reduce to painting. It is a rich line, you say, and riches hide a many faults. I maintain, that in the 2d antist: you _do_ disjoin Nature and the world, and contrary to your conduct in the 2d strophe. "Nature joins her groans"--joins with _whom_, a God's name, but the world or earth in line preceding? But this is being over curious, I acknowledge. Nor _did_ I call the _last_ line useless, I only objected to "unhurld." I cannot be made to like the former part of that 2d Epode; I cannot be made to feel it, as I do the parallel places in Isaiah, Jeremy and Daniel. Whether it is that in the present case the rhyme impairs the efficacy; or that the circumstances are feigned, and we are conscious of a made up lye in the case, and the narrative is too long winded to preserve the semblance of truth; or that lines 8. 9. 10. 14 in partic: 17 and 18 are mean and unenthusiastic; or that lines 5 to 8 in their change of rhyme shew like art--I don't know, but it strikes me as something meant to affect, and failing in its purpose. Remember my waywardness of feeling is single, and singly stands opposed to all your friends, and what is one among many! This I know, that your quotations from the prophets have never escaped me, and never fail'd to affect me strongly. I hate that simile. I am glad you have amended that parenthesis in the account of Destruction. I like it well now. Only utter [? omit] that history of child-bearing, and all will do well. Let the obnoxious Epode remain, to terrify such of your friends as are willing to be terrified. I think I would omit the Notes, not as not good per se, but as uncongenial with the dignity of the Ode. I need not repeat my wishes to have my little sonnets printed verbatim my last way. In particular, I fear lest you should prefer printing my first sonnet, as you have done more than once, "did the wand of Merlin wave"? It looks so like _Mr._ Merlin, the ingenious successor of the immortal Merlin, now living in good health and spirits, and nourishing in magical reputation in Oxford Street; and on my life, one half who read it would understand it so. Do put 'em forth finally as I have, in various letters, settled it; for first a man's self is to be pleased, and then his friends,--and, of course the greater number of his friends, if they differ inter se. Thus taste may safely be put to the vote. I do long to see our names together--not for vanity's sake, and naughty pride of heart altogether, for not a living soul, I know or am intimate with, will scarce read the book--so I shall gain nothing quoad famam,--and yet there is a little vanity mixes in it, I cannot help denying. I am aware of the unpoetical cast of the 6 last lines of my last sonnet, and think myself unwarranted in smuggling so tame a thing into the book; only the sentiments of those 6 lines are thoroughly congenial to me in my state of mind, and I wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my affection to poor Mary; that it has no originality in its cast, nor anything in the feelings, but what is common and natural to thousands, nor aught properly called poetry, I see; still it will tend to keep present to my mind a view of things which I ought to indulge. These 6 lines, too, have not, to a reader, a connectedness with the foregoing. Omit it, if you like.--What a treasure it is to my poor indolent and unemployed mind, thus to lay hold on a subject to talk about, tho' 'tis but a sonnet and that of the lowest order. How mournfully inactive I am!--'Tis night: good-night. My sister, I thank God, is nigh recovered. She was seriously ill. Do, in your next letter, and that right soon, give me some satisfaction respecting your present situation at Stowey. Is it a farm you have got? and what does your worship know about farming? Coleridge, I want you to write an Epic poem. Nothing short of it can satisfy the vast capacity of true poetic genius. Having one great End to direct all your poetical faculties to, and on which to lay out your hopes, your ambition, will shew you to what you are equal. By the sacred energies of Milton, by the dainty sweet and soothing phantasies of honeytongued Spenser, I adjure you to attempt the Epic. Or do something more ample than writing an occasional brief ode or sonnet; something "to make yourself for ever known,--to make the age to come your own". But I prate; doubtless you meditate something. When you are exalted among the Lords of Epic fame, I shall recall with pleasure, and exultingly, the days of your humility, when you disdained not to put forth in the same volume with mine, your religious musings, and that other poem from the Joan of Arc, those promising first fruits of high renown to come. You have learning, you have fancy, you have enthusiasm--you have strength and amplitude of wing enow for flights like those I recommend. In the vast and unexplored regions of fairyland, there is ground enough unfound and uncultivated; search there, and realize your favourite Susquehanah scheme. In all our comparisons of taste, I do not know whether I have ever heard your opinion of a poet, very dear to me, the now out of fashion Cowley--favor me with your judgment of him, and tell me if his prose essays, in particular, as well as no inconsiderable part of his verse, be not delicious. I prefer the graceful rambling of his essays, even to the courtly elegance and ease of Addison--abstracting from this the latter's exquisite humour. Why is not your poem on Burns in the Monthly Magazine? I was much disappointed. I have a pleasurable but confused remembrance of it. When the little volume is printed, send me 3 or 4, at all events not more than 6 copies, and tell me if I put you to any additional expence, by printing with you. I have no thought of the kind, and in that case, must reimburse you. My epistle is a model of unconnectedness, but I have no partic: subject to write on, and must proportion my scribble in some degree to the increase of postage. It is not quite fair, considering how burdensome your correspondence from different quarters must be, to add to it with so little shew of reason. I will make an end for this evening. Sunday Even:--Farewell. Priestly, whom I sin in almost adoring, speaks of "such a choice of company, as tends to keep up that right bent, and firmness of mind, which a necessary intercourse with the world would otherwise warp and relax. Such fellowship is the true balsam of life, its cement is infinitely more durable than that of the friendships of the world, and it looks for its proper fruit, and complete gratification, to the life beyond the Grave." Is there a possible chance for such an one as me to realize in this world, such friendships? Where am I to look for 'em? What testimonials shall I bring of my being worthy of such friendship? Alas! the great and good go together in separate Herds, and leave such as me to lag far far behind in all intellectual, and far more grievous to say, in all moral, accomplishments. Coleridge, I have not one truly elevated character among my acquaintance: not one Christian: not one but undervalues Christianity. Singly what am I to do? Wesley (have you read his life? was _he_ not an elevated character?) Wesley has said, "Religion is not a solitary thing." Alas! it necessarily is so with me, or next to solitary. 'Tis true, you write to me. But correspondence by letter, and personal intimacy, are very widely different. Do, do write to me, and do some good to my mind, already how much "warped and relaxed" by the world!--'Tis the conclusion of another evening. Good night. God have us all in his keeping. If you are sufficiently at leisure, oblige me with an account of your plan of life at Stowey--your literary occupations and prospects--in short make me acquainted with every circumstance, which, as relating to you, can be interesting to me. Are you yet a Berkleyan? Make me one. I rejoice in being, speculatively, a necessarian. Would to God, I were habitually a practical one. Confirm me in the faith of that great and glorious doctrine, and keep me steady in the contemplation of it. You sometime since exprest an intention you had of finishing some extensive work on the Evidences of Natural and Revealed Religion. Have you let that intention go? Or are you doing any thing towards it? Make to yourself other ten talents. My letter is full of nothingness. I talk of nothing. But I must talk. I love to write to you. I take a pride in it. It makes me think less meanly of myself. It makes me think myself not totally disconnected from the better part of Mankind. I know, I am too dissatisfied with the beings around me,--but I cannot help occasionally exclaiming "Woe is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Meshech, and to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar"--I know I am no ways better in practice than my neighbours--but I have a taste for religion, an occasional earnest aspiration after perfection, which they have not. I gain nothing by being with such as myself--we encourage one another in mediocrity--I am always longing to be with men more excellent than myself. All this must sound odd to you; but these are my predominant feelings, when I sit down to write to you, and I should put force upon my mind, were I to reject them. Yet I rejoyce, and feel my privilege with gratitude, when I have been reading some wise book, such as I have just been reading--Priestley on Philosophical necessity--in the thought that I enjoy a kind of communion, a kind of friendship even, with the great and good. Books are to me instead of friends. I wish they did not resemble the latter in their scarceness.--And how does little David Hartley? "Ecquid in antiquam virtutem?"--does his mighty name work wonders yet upon his little frame, and opening mind? I did not distinctly understand you,--you don't mean to make an actual ploughman of him? Mrs. C---- is no doubt well,--give my kindest respects to her. Is Lloyd with you yet?--are you intimate with Southey? What poems is he about to publish--he hath a most prolific brain, and is indeed a most sweet poet. But how can you answer all the various mass of interrogation I have put to you in the course of this sheet. Write back just what you like, only write something, however brief. I have now nigh finished my page, and got to the end of another evening (Monday evening)--and my eyes are heavy and sleepy, and my brain unsuggestive. I have just heart enough awake to say Good night once more, and God love you my dear friend, God love us all. Mary bears an affectionate remembrance of you. CHARLES LAMB. [The criticisms contained in the first paragraph bear upon Coleridge's "Ode on the Departing Year," which had already appeared twice, in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_ and in a quarto issued by Cottle, and was now being revised for the second edition of the _Poems_. The personification of Madness was contained in the line, afterwards omitted:-- For still does Madness roam on Guilt's black dizzy height. Lamb's objection to this line, considering his home circumstances at the time, was very natural. In Antistrophe I. Coleridge originally said of the ethereal multitude in Heaven-- Whose purple Locks with snow-white Glories shone. In the 1797 _Poems_ the line ran-- Whose wreathed Locks with snow-white Glories shone; and in the final version-- Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shone. Coleridge must have supported his case, in the letter which Lamb is answering, by a reference to the Italian painters. Coleridge in the 1797 edition of his Poems made no alteration to meet Lamb's strictures. The simile that Lamb hated is, I imagine, that of the soldier on the war field. "The history of child-bearing" referred to is the passage at the end of Strophe II. To the quarto Coleridge had appended various notes. In 1797 he had only three, and added an argument. The reference to Merlin will be explained by a glance at the parallel sonnets above. Merlin was entirely Coleridge's idea. A conjuror of that name was just then among London's attractions. The "last sonnet," which was not the last in the 1797 volume, but the 6th, was that beginning "If from my lips" (see first letter). In connection with Lamb's question on the Stowey husbandry, the following quotation from a letter from Coleridge to the Rev. J. P. Estlin, belonging to this period, is interesting;-- Our house is better than we expected--there is a comfortable bedroom and sitting-room for C. Lloyd, and another for us, a room for Nanny, a kitchen, and out-house. Before our door a clear brook runs of very soft water; and in the back yard is a nice _well_ of fine spring water. We have a very pretty garden, and large enough to find us vegetables and employment, and I am already an expert gardener, and both my hands can exhibit a callum as testimonials of their industry. We have likewise a sweet orchard. Writing a little before this to Charles Lloyd, senior, Coleridge had said: "My days I shall devote to the acquirement of practical husbandry and horticulture." The poem on Burns was that "To a Friend [Lamb] who had Declared His Intention of Writing no more Poetry." It was printed first in a Bristol paper and then in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800. Priestley's remark is in the Dedication to John Lee, Esq., of Lincoln's Inn, of "A Free Discussion of the Doctrines of Materialism and Philosophical Necessity in a Correspondence between Dr. Price and Dr. Priestley," etc., included in _Disquisitions Relating to Matter and Spirit_, Vol. III., 1778. The discussion arose from the publication by Priestley of _The Doctrine of Philosophical Necessity Illustrated_, which itself is an appendage to _Disquisitions Relating to Matter and Spirit_. Three lives at least of John Wesley were published in the two years following his death in 1791. Coleridge later studied Wesley closely, for he added valuable notes to Southey's life (see the 1846 edition). "A Berkleyan," _i.e._, a follower of Bishop Berkeley (1685-1753), who in his _New Theory of Vision_ and later works maintained that "what we call matter has no actual existence, and that the impressions which we believe ourselves to receive from it are not, in fact, derived from anything external to ourselves, but are produced within us by a certain disposition of the mind, the immediate operation of God" (Benham's _Dictionary of Religion_). Coleridge when sending Southey one version of his poem to Charles Lamb, entitled "This Lime-tree Bower my Prison" (to which we shall come later), in July, 1797, appended to the following passage the note, "You remember I am a _Berkleian_":-- Struck with joy's deepest calm, and gazing round On the wide view, may gaze till all doth seem Less gross than bodily; a living thing That acts upon the mind, and with such hues As clothe the Almighty Spirit, when He makes Spirits perceive His presence! "A Necessarian." We should now say a fatalist. Coleridge's work on the "Evidences of Natural and Revealed Religion," which has before been mentioned, was, if ever begun, never completed.] LETTER 21 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Dated at end: January 18, 1797.] Dear Col,--You have learnd by this time, with surprise, no doubt, that Lloyd is with me in town. The emotions I felt on his coming so unlooked for are not ill expressed in what follows, & what, if you do not object to them as too personal, & to the world obscure, or otherwise wanting in worth, I should wish to make a part of our little volume. I shall be sorry if that vol comes out, as it necessarily must do, unless you print those very schoolboyish verses I sent you on not getting leave to come down to Bristol last Summer. I say I shall be sorry that I have addrest you in nothing which can appear in our joint volume. So frequently, so habitually as you dwell on my thoughts, 'tis some wonder those thoughts came never yet in Contact with a poetical mood--But you dwell in my heart of hearts, and I love you in all the naked honesty of prose. God bless you, and all your little domestic circle--my tenderest remembrances to your Beloved Sara, & a smile and a kiss from me to your dear dear little David Hartley--The verses I refer to above, slightly amended, I have sent (forgetting to ask your leave, tho' indeed I gave them only your initials) to the Month: Mag: where they may possibly appear next month, and where I hope to recognise your Poem on Burns. TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR Alone, obscure, without a friend, A cheerless, solitary thing, Why seeks my Lloyd the stranger out? What offring can the stranger bring Of social scenes, home-bred delights, That him in aught compensate may For Stowey's pleasant winter nights, For loves & friendships far away? In brief oblivion to forego Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, And be awhile with me content To stay, a kindly loiterer, here-- For this a gleam of random joy, Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek, And, with an o'er-charg'd bursting heart, I feel the thanks, I cannot speak. O! sweet are all the Muses' lays, And sweet the charm of matin bird-- 'Twas long, since these estranged ears The sweeter voice of friend had heard. The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds In memory's ear, in after time Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. For when the transient charm is fled, And when the little week is o'er, To cheerless, friendless solitude When I return, as heretofore-- Long, long, within my aching heart, The grateful sense shall cherishd be; I'll think less meanly of myself, That Lloyd will sometimes think on me. 1797. O Col: would to God you were in London with us, or we two at Stowey with you all. Lloyd takes up his abode at the Bull & Mouth Inn,--the Cat & Salutation would have had a charm more forcible for me. _O noctes caenaeque Deum!_ Anglice--Welch rabbits, punch, & poesy. Should you be induced to publish those very schoolboyish verses, print 'em as they will occur, if at all, in the Month: Mag: yet I should feel ashamed that to you I wrote nothing better. But they are too personal, & almost trifling and obscure withal. Some lines of mine to Cowper were in last Month: Mag: they have not body of thought enough to plead for the retaining of 'em. My sister's kind love to you all. C. LAMB. [The verses to Lloyd were included in Coleridge's 1797 volume; but the verses concerning the frustrated Bristol holiday were omitted. Concerning this visit to London Charles Lloyd wrote to his brother Robert: "I left Charles Lamb very warmly interested in his favour, and have kept up a regular correspondence with him ever since; he is a most interesting young man." Only two letters from Lamb to Charles Lloyd have survived. "We two"--Lamb and Lloyd. Not Lamb and his sister.] LETTER 22 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Begun Sunday, February 5, 1797. Dated on address by mistake: January 5, 1797.] Sunday Morning.--You cannot surely mean to degrade the Joan of Arc into a pot girl. You are not going, I hope, to annex to that most splendid ornament of Southey's poem all this cock and a bull story of Joan the publican's daughter of Neufchatel, with the lamentable episode of a waggoner, his wife, and six children; the texture will be most lamentably disproportionate. The first forty or fifty lines of these addenda are, no doubt, in their way, admirable, too; but many would prefer the Joan of Southey. "On mightiest deeds to brood Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart Throb fast. Anon I paused, and in a state Of half expectance listen'd to the wind;" "They wonder'd at me, who had known me once A chearful careless damsel;" "The eye, That of the circling throng and of the visible world Unseeing, saw the shapes of holy phantasy;" I see nothing in your description of the Maid equal to these. There is a fine originality certainly in those lines--"For she had lived in this bad world as in a place of tombs, And touch'd not the pollutions of the Dead"--but your "fierce vivacity" is a faint copy of the "fierce & terrible benevolence" of Southey. Added to this, that it will look like rivalship in you, & extort a comparison with S,--I think to your disadvantage. And the lines, consider'd in themselves as an addition to what you had before written (strains of a far higher mood), are but such as Madame Fancy loves in some of her more familiar moods, at such times as she has met Noll Goldsmith, & walk'd and talk'd with him, calling him old acquaintance. Southey certainly has no pretensions to vie with you in the sublime of poetry; but he tells a plain tale better than you. I will enumerate some woeful blemishes, some of 'em sad deviations from that simplicity which was your aim. "Hail'd who might be near" (the canvas-coverture moving, by the by, is laughable); "a woman & six children" (by the way,--why not nine children, it would have been just half as pathetic again): "statues of sleep they seem'd." "Frost-mangled wretch:" "green putridity:" "hail'd him immortal" (rather ludicrous again): "voiced a sad and simple tale" (abominable!): "unprovender'd:" "such his tale:" "Ah! suffering to the height of what was suffer'd" (a most _insufferable line_): "amazements of affright:" "the hot sore brain attributes its own hues of ghastliness and torture" (what shocking confusion of ideas!). In these delineations of common & natural feelings, in the familiar walks of poetry, you seem to resemble Montauban dancing with Roubigne's tenants, "much of his native loftiness remained in the execution." I was reading your Religious Musings the other day, & sincerely I think it the noblest poem in the language, next after the Paradise lost; & even that was not made the vehicle of such grand truths. "There is one mind," &c., down to "Almighty's Throne," are without a rival in the whole compass of my poetical reading. "Stands in the sun, & with no partial gaze Views all creation"--I wish I could have written those lines. I rejoyce that I am able to relish them. The loftier walks of Pindus are your proper region. There you have no compeer in modern times. Leave the lowlands, unenvied, in possession of such men as Cowper & Southey. Thus am I pouring balsam into the wounds I may have been inflicting on my poor friend's vanity. In your notice of Southey's new volume you omit to mention the most pleasing of all, the Miniature "There were Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee, Young Robert. Spirit of Spenser!--was the wanderer wrong?" Fairfax I have been in quest of a long time. Johnson in his life of Waller gives a most delicious specimen of him, & adds, in the true manner of that delicate critic, as well as amiable man, "it may be presumed that this old version will not be much read after the elegant translation of my friend, Mr. Hoole." I endeavour'd--I wish'd to gain some idea of Tasso from this Mr. Hoole, the great boast and ornament of the India House, but soon desisted. I found him more vapid than smallest small beer sun-vinegared. Your dream, down to that exquisite line--"I can't tell half his adventures," is a most happy resemblance of Chaucer. The remainder is so so. The best line, I think, is, "He belong'd, I believe, to the witch Melancholy." By the way, when will our volume come out? Don't delay it till you have written a new Joan of Arc. Send what letters you please by me, & in any way you choose, single or double. The India Co. is better adapted to answer the cost than the generality of my friend's correspondents,--such poor & honest dogs as John Thelwall, particularly. I cannot say I know Colson, at least intimately. I once supped with him & Allen. I think his manners very pleasing. I will not tell you what I think of Lloyd, for he may by chance come to see this letter, and that thought puts a restraint on me. I cannot think what subject would suit your epic genius; some philosophical subject, I conjecture, in which shall be blended the Sublime of Poetry & of Science. Your proposed Hymns will be a fit preparatory study wherewith "to discipline your young noviciate soul." I grow dull; I'll go walk myself out of my dulness. _Sunday Night_.--You & Sara are very good to think so kindly & so favourably of poor Mary. I would to God all did so too. But I very much fear she must not think of coming home in my father's lifetime. It is very hard upon her. But our circumstances are peculiar, & we must submit to them. God be praised she is so well as she is. She bears her situation as one who has no right to complain. My poor old aunt, whom you have seen, the kindest, goodest creature to me when I was at school; who used to toddle there to bring me fag, when I, school-boy like, only despised her for it, & used to be ashamed to see her come & sit herself down on the old coal hole steps as you went into the old grammar school, & opend her apron & bring out her bason, with some nice thing she had caused to be saved for me--the good old creature is now lying on her death bed. I cannot bear to think on her deplorable state. To the shock she received on that our evil day, from which she never completely recovered, I impute her illness. She says, poor thing, she is glad she is come home to die with me. I was always her favourite: "No after friendship e'er can raise The endearments of our early days, Nor e'er the heart such fondness prove, As when it first began to love." Lloyd has kindly left me for a keep-sake, John Woolman. You have read it, he says, & like it. Will you excuse one short extract? I think it could not have escaped you:--"Small treasure to a resigned mind is sufficient. How happy is it to be content with a little, to live in humility, & feel that in us which breathes out this language--Abba! Father!"--I am almost ashamed to patch up a letter in this miscellaneous sort; but I please myself in the thought, that anything from me will be acceptable to you. I am rather impatient, childishly so, to see our names affixed to the same common volume. Send me two, when it does come out; 2 will be enough--or indeed 1--but 2 better. I have a dim recollection that, when in town, you were talking of the Origin of Evil as a most prolific subject for a long poem. Why not adopt it, Coleridge? there would be room for imagination. Or the description (from a Vision or Dream, suppose) of an Utopia in one of the planets (the Moon, for instance). Or a Five Days' Dream, which shall illustrate, in sensible imagery, Hartley's 5 motives to conduct:--sensation (1), imagination (2), ambition (3), sympathy (4), Theopathy (5). 1st banquets, music, etc., effeminacy,--and their insufficiency. 2d "beds of hyacinth & roses, where young Adonis oft reposes;" "fortunate Isles;" "The pagan Elysium," etc., etc.; poetical pictures; antiquity as pleasing to the fancy;--their emptiness, madness, etc. 3d warriors, poets; some famous, yet more forgotten, their fame or oblivion now alike indifferent, pride, vanity, etc. 4th all manner of pitiable stories, in Spenser-like verse--love--friendship, relationship, &c. 5th Hermits--Christ and his apostles--martyrs--heaven--&c., etc. An imagination like yours, from these scanty hints, may expand into a thousand great Ideas--if indeed you at all comprehend my scheme, which I scarce do myself. _Monday Morn._--"A London letter. 9-1/2." Look you, master poet, I have remorse as well as another man, & my bowels can sound upon occasion. But I must put you to this charge, for I cannot keep back my protest, however ineffectual, against the annexing your latter lines to those former--this putting of new wine into old bottles. This my duty done, I will cease from writing till you invent some more reasonable mode of conveyance. Well may the "ragged followers of the nine" set up for flocci-nauci-what-do-you-call-'em-ists! And I do not wonder that in their splendid visions of Utopias in America they protest against the admission of those _yellow_-complexioned, _copper_-color'd, _white_-liver'd Gentlemen, who never proved themselves _their_ friends. Don't you think your verses on a Young Ass too trivial a companion for the Religious Musings? "Scoundrel monarch," alter _that_; and the Man of Ross is scarce admissible as it now stands curtailed of its fairer half: reclaim its property from the Chatterton, which it does but encumber, & it will be a rich little poem. I hope you expunge great part of the old notes in the new edition. That, in particular, most barefaced unfounded impudent assertion, that Mr. Rogers is indebted for his story to Loch Lomond, a poem by Bruce! I have read the latter. I scarce think you have. Scarce anything is common to them both. The poor author of the Pleasures of Memory was sorely hurt, Dyer says, by the accusation of unoriginality. He never saw the Poem. I long to read your Poem on Burns; I retain so indistinct a memory of it. In what shape and how does it come into public? As you leave off writing poetry till you finish your Hymns, I suppose you print now all you have got by you. You have scarce enough unprinted to make a 2d volume with Lloyd. Tell me all about it. What is become of Cowper? Lloyd told me of some verses on his mother. If you have them by you, pray send 'em me. I do so love him! Never mind their merit. May be _I_ may like 'em--as your taste and mine do not always exactly _indentify_. Yours, LAMB. [Coleridge intended to print in his new edition the lines that he had contributed to Southey's _Joan of Arc_, 1796, with certain additions, under the title "The Progress of Liberty; or, The Visions of the Maid of Orleans." Writing to Cottle Coleridge had said: "I much wish to send _My Visions of the Maid of Arc_ and my corrections to Wordsworth ... and to Lamb, whose taste and _judgment_ I see reason to think more correct and philosophical than my own, which yet I place pretty high." Lamb's criticisms are contained in this letter. Coleridge abandoned his idea of including the poem in the 1797 edition, and the lines were not separately published until 1817, in _Sibylline Leaves_, under the title "The Destiny of Nations." "Montauban ... Roubigne." An illustration from Henry Mackenzie's novel _Julia de Roubigne_, 1777, from which Lamb took hints, a little later, for the structure of part of his story _Rosamund Gray_. This is the passage in "Religious Musings" that Lamb particularly praises:-- There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, Omnific. His most holy name is Love. Truth of subliming import! with the which Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, He from his small particular orbit flies With blest outstarting! From himself he flies, Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze Views all creation; and he loves it all, And blesses it, and calls it very good! This is indeed to dwell with the Most High! Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim Can press no nearer to the Almighty's throne. Southey's new volume, which Coleridge had noticed, was his _Poems_, second edition, Vol. I., 1797. The poem in question was "On My Own Miniature Picture taken at Two Years of Age." Edward Fairfax's "Tasso" (_Godfrey of Bulloigne, or the Recoverie of Jerusalem_) was published in 1600. John Hoole, a later translator, became principal auditor at the India House, and resigned in 1786. He died in 1803. Coleridge's dream was the poem called "The Raven." Citizen John Thelwall (1764-1834), to whom many of Coleridge's early letters are written, was a Jacobin enthusiast who had gone to the Tower with Thomas Hardy and Home Tooke in 1794, but was acquitted at his trial. At this time he was writing and lecturing on political subjects. When, in 1818, Thelwall acquired _The Champion_ Lamb wrote squibs for it against the Regent and others. Colson was perhaps Thomas Coulson, a friend of Sir Humphry Davy and the father of Walter Coulson (born? 1794) who was called "The Walking Encyclopaedia," and was afterwards a friend of Hazlitt. "To discipline your young noviciate soul." A line from "Religious Musings," 1796:-- I discipline my young noviciate thought. "My poor old aunt." Lamb's lines on his Aunt Hetty repeat some of this praise; as also does the _Elia_ essay on "Christ's Hospital." John Woolman (1720-1772), an American Quaker. His _Works_ comprise _A Journal of the Life, Gospel, Labours, and Christian Experiences of that Faithful Minister of Jesus Christ, John Woolman_, and _His Last Epistle and other Writings_. Lamb often praised the book. "A London letter, 9-1/2." A word on the postal system of those days may not be out of place. The cost of the letter when a frank had not been procured was borne by the recipient. The rate varied with the distance. The charge from London to Bridgewater in 1797 was sevenpence. Later it was raised to ninepence and tenpence. No regular post was set up between Bridgewater and Nether Stowey until 1808, when the cost of the carriage of a letter for the intervening nine miles was twopence. "Flocci." See note on page II. "The Young Ass," early versions, ended thus:-- Soothe to rest The tumult of some Scoundrel Monarch's breast. Coleridge changed the last line to-- The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast. Coleridge had asserted, in a 1796 note, that Rogers had taken the story of Florio in the _Pleasures of Memory_ from Michael Bruce's _Loch Leven_ (not _Loch Lomond_). In the 1797 edition another note made apology for the mistake. Cowper's "Lines on the Receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk" had been written in the spring of 1790. It is interesting to find Lamb reading them just now, for his own _Blank Verse_ poems, shortly to be written, have much in common with Cowper's verses, not only in manner but in matter.] LETTER 23 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE Feb. 13th, 1797. Your poem is altogether admirable--parts of it are even exquisite--in particular your personal account of the Maid far surpasses any thing of the sort in Southey. I perceived all its excellences, on a first reading, as readily as now you have been removing a supposed film from my eyes. I was only struck with [a] certain faulty disproportion in the matter and the _style_, which I still think I perceive, between these lines and the former ones. I had an end in view; I wished to make you reject the poem, only as being discordant with the other; and, in subservience to that end, it was politically done in me to over-pass, and make no mention of merit which, could you think me capable of _overlooking_, might reasonably damn for ever in your judgment all pretensions in me to be critical. There, I will be judged by Lloyd, whether I have not made a very handsome recantation. I was in the case of a man whose friend has asked him his opinion of a certain young lady; the deluded wight gives judgment against her _in toto_--don't like her face, her walk, her manners--finds fault with her eyebrows--can see no wit in her. His friend looks blank; he begins to smell a rat; wind veers about; he acknowledges her good sense, her judgment in dress, a certain simplicity of manners and honesty of heart, something too in her manners which gains upon you after a short acquaintance,--and then her accurate pronunciation of the French language and a pretty uncultivated taste in drawing. The reconciled gentleman smiles applause, squeezes him by the hand, and hopes he will do him the honour of taking a bit of dinner with Mrs.--and him--a plain family dinner--some day next week. "For, I suppose, you never heard we were married! I'm glad to see you like my wife, however; you'll come and see her, ha?" Now am I too proud to retract entirely. Yet I do perceive I am in some sort straitened; you are manifestly wedded to this poem, and what fancy has joined let no man separate. I turn me to the Joan of Arc, second book. The solemn openings of it are with sounds which, Lloyd would say, "are silence to the mind." The deep preluding strains are fitted to initiate the mind, with a pleasing awe, into the sublimest mysteries of theory concerning man's nature and his noblest destination--the philosophy of a first cause--of subordinate agents in creation superior to man--the subserviency of Pagan worship and Pagan faith to the introduction of a purer and more perfect religion, which you so elegantly describe as winning with gradual steps her difficult way northward from Bethabra. After all this cometh Joan, a _publican's_ daughter, sitting on an ale-house _bench_, and marking the _swingings_ of the _signboard_, finding a poor man, his wife and six children, starved to death with cold, and thence roused into a state of mind proper to receive visions emblematical of equality; which what the devil Joan had to do with, I don't know, or indeed with the French and American revolutions; though that needs no pardon, it is executed so nobly. After all, if you perceive no disproportion, all argument is vain: I do not so much object to parts. Again, when you talk of building your fame on these lines in preference to the "Religious Musings," I cannot help conceiving of you and of the author of that as two different persons, and I think you a very vain man. I have been re-reading your letter. Much of it I _could_ dispute; but with the latter part of it, in which you compare the two Joans with respect to their predispositions for fanaticism, I _toto corde_ coincide; only I think that Southey's strength rather lies in the description of the emotions of the Maid under the weight of inspiration,--these (I see no mighty difference between _her_ describing them or _you_ describing them), these if you only equal, the previous admirers of his poem, as is natural, will prefer his; if you surpass, prejudice will scarcely allow it, and I scarce think you will surpass, though your specimen at the conclusion (I am in earnest) I think very nigh equals them. And in an account of a fanatic or of a prophet the description of her _emotions_ is expected to be most highly finished. By the way, I spoke far too disparagingly of your lines, and, I am ashamed to say, purposely. I should like you to specify or particularise; the story of the "Tottering Eld," of "his eventful years all come and gone," is too general; why not make him a soldier, or some character, however, in which he has been witness to frequency of "cruel wrong and strange distress!" I think I should. When I laughed at the "miserable man crawling from beneath the coverture," I wonder I [? you] did not perceive it was a laugh of horror--such as I have laughed at Dante's picture of the famished Ugolino. Without falsehood, I perceive an hundred beauties in your narrative. Yet I wonder you do not perceive something out-of-the way, something unsimple and artificial, in the expression, "voiced a sad tale." I hate made-dishes at the muses' banquet. I believe I was wrong in most of my other objections. But surely "hailed him immortal," adds nothing to the terror of the man's death, which it was your business to heighten, not diminish by a phrase which takes away all terror from it. I like that line, "They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas death." Indeed, there is scarce a line I do not like. "_Turbid_ ecstacy," is surely not so good as what you _had_ written, "troublous." Turbid rather suits the muddy kind of inspiration which London porter confers. The versification is, throughout, to my ears unexceptionable, with no disparagement to the measure of the "Religious Musings," which is exactly fitted to the thoughts. You were building your house on a rock, when you rested your fame on that poem. I can scarce bring myself to believe, that I am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the licence of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like Milton. Now, this is delicate flattery, _indirect_ flattery. Go on with your "Maid of Orleans," and be content to be second to yourself. I shall become a convert to it, when 'tis finished. This afternoon I attend the funeral of my poor old aunt, who died on Thursday. I own I am thankful that the good creature has ended all her days of suffering and infirmity. She was to me the "cherisher of infancy," and one must fall on these occasions into reflections which it would be commonplace to enumerate, concerning death, "of chance and change, and fate in human life." Good God, who could have foreseen all this but four months back! I had reckoned, in particular, on my aunt's living many years; she was a very hearty old woman. But she was a mere skeleton before she died, looked more like a corpse that had lain weeks in the grave, than one fresh dead. "Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun; but let a man live many days and rejoice in them all, yet let him remember the days of darkness, for they shall be many." Coleridge, why are we to live on after all the strength and beauty of existence are gone, when all the life of life is fled, as poor Burns expresses it? Tell Lloyd I have had thoughts of turning Quaker, and have been reading, or am rather just beginning to read, a most capital book, good thoughts in good language, William Penn's "No Cross, no Crown;" I like it immensely. Unluckily I went to one of his meetings, tell him, in St. John Street, yesterday, and saw a man under all the agitations and workings of a fanatic, who believed himself under the influence of some "inevitable presence." This cured me of Quakerism; I love it in the books of Penn and Woolman, but I detest the vanity of a man thinking he speaks by the Spirit, when what he says an ordinary man might say without all that quaking and trembling. In the midst of his inspiration--and the effects of it were most noisy--was handed into the midst of the meeting a most terrible blackguard Wapping sailor; the poor man, I believe, had rather have been in the hottest part of an engagement, for the congregation of broad-brims, together with the ravings of the prophet, were too much for his gravity, though I saw even he had delicacy enough not to laugh out. And the inspired gentleman, though his manner was so supernatural, yet neither talked nor professed to talk anything more than good sober sense, common morality, with now and then a declaration of not speaking from himself. Among other things, looking back to his childhood and early youth, he told the meeting what a graceless young dog he had been, that in his youth he had a good share of wit: reader, if thou hadst seen the gentleman, thou wouldst have sworn that it must indeed have been many years ago, for his rueful physiognomy would have scared away the playful goddess from the meeting, where he presided, for ever. A wit! a wit! what could he mean? Lloyd, it minded me of Falkland in the "Rivals," "Am I full of wit and humour? No, indeed you are not. Am I the life and soul of every company I come into? No, it cannot be said you are." That hard-faced gentleman, a wit! Why, Nature wrote on his fanatic forehead fifty years ago, "Wit never comes, that comes to all." I should be as scandalised at a _bon mot_ issuing from his oracle-looking mouth, as to see Cato go down a country-dance. God love you all. You are very good to submit to be pleased with reading my nothings. 'Tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense, and to have her nonsense re-spected.--Yours ever, C. LAMB. [Lamb's Aunt Hetty, Sarah Lamb, was buried at St. James's, Clerkenwell, on February 13, 1797. "As poor Burns expresses it." In the "Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn," the Stanza:-- In weary being now I pine, For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken, On forward wing for ever fled. "Turning Quaker." Lamb refers to the Peel meeting-house in John Street, Clerkenwell. Lamb afterwards used the story of the wit in the _Ella_ essay "A Quaker's Meeting." In his invocation to the reader he here foreshadows his Elian manner. "Falkland" is in Sheridan's comedy "The Rivals" (see Act II., Scene i).] LETTER 24 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE April 7th, 1797. Your last letter was dated the 10th February; in it you promised to write again the next day. At least, I did not expect so long, so unfriend-like, a silence. There was a time, Col., when a remissness of this sort in a dear friend would have lain very heavy on my mind, but latterly I have been too familiar with neglect to feel much from the semblance of it. Yet, to suspect one's self overlooked and in the way to oblivion, is a feeling rather humbling; perhaps, as tending to self-mortification, not unfavourable to the spiritual state. Still, as you meant to confer no benefit on the soul of your friend, you do not stand quite clear from the imputation of unkindliness (a word by which I mean the diminutive of unkindness). Lloyd tells me he has been very ill, and was on the point of leaving you. I addressed a letter to him at Birmingham: perhaps he got it not, and is still with you, I hope his ill-health has not prevented his attending to a request I made in it, that he would write again very soon to let me know how he was. I hope to God poor Lloyd is not very bad, or in a very bad way. Pray satisfy me about these things. And then David Hartley was unwell; and how is the small philosopher, the minute philosopher? and David's mother? Coleridge, I am not trifling, nor are these matter-of-fact [?course] questions only. You are all very dear and precious to me; do what you will, Col., you may hurt me and vex me by your silence, but you cannot estrange my heart from you all. I cannot scatter friendship[s] like chuck-farthings, nor let them drop from mine hand like hour-glass sand. I have two or three people in the world to whom I am more than indifferent, and I can't afford to whistle them off to the winds. By the way, Lloyd may have told you about my sister. I told him. If not, I have taken her out of her confinement, and taken a room for her at Hackney, and spend my Sundays, holidays, etc., with her. She boards herself. In one little half year's illness, and in such an illness of such a nature and of such consequences! to get her out into the world again, with a prospect of her never being so ill again--this is to be ranked not among the common blessings of Providence. May that merciful God make tender my heart, and make me as thankful, as in my distress I was earnest, in my prayers. Congratulate me on an ever-present and never-alienable friend like her. And do, do insert, if you have not _lost_, my dedication. It will have lost half its value by coming so late. If you really are going on with that volume, I shall be enabled in a day or two to send you a short poem to insert. Now, do answer this. Friendship, and acts of friendship, should be reciprocal, and free as the air; a friend should never be reduced to beg an alms of his fellow. Yet I will beg an alms; I entreat you to write, and tell me all about poor Lloyd, and all of you. God love and preserve you all. C. LAMB. [Lloyd's domestication with Coleridge had been intermittent. It began in September, 1796; in November Lloyd was very ill; in December Coleridge told Mr. Lloyd that he would retain his son no longer as pupil but merely as a lodger and friend; at Christmas Charles Lloyd was at Birmingham; in January he was in London; in March he was ill again and his experiment with Coleridge ended. "The minute philosopher." A joking reference to Bishop Berkeley's _Alciphron; or, The Minute Philosopher_. For the dedication to which Lamb refers see above.] LETTER 25 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE April 15th, 1797. A VISION OF REPENTANCE I saw a famous fountain in my dream, Where shady pathways to a valley led; A weeping willow lay upon that stream, And all around the fountain brink were spread Wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, Forming a doubtful twilight desolate and sad. The place was such, that whoso enter'd in Disrobed was of every earthly thought, And straight became as one that knew not sin, Or to the world's first innocence was brought; Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around. A most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite; Long time I stood, and longer had I staid, When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight, Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, Where near the fountain SOMETHING like DESPAIR Made of that weeping willow garlands for her hair. And eke with painful fingers she inwove Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn-- "The willow garland, _that_ was for her Love, And _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn." With sighs her heart nigh burst--salt tears fast fell, As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well. To whom when I addrest myself to speak, She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said; The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, And gathering up her loose attire, she fled To the dark covert of that woody shade And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid. Revolving in my mind what this should mean, And why that lovely Lady plained so; Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene, And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go, I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around, When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound "Psyche am I, who love to dwell In these brown shades, this woody dell, Where never busy mortal came, Till now, to pry upon my shame. "At thy feet what thou dost see The Waters of Repentance be, Which, night and day, I must augment With tears, like a true penitent, If haply so my day of grace Be not yet past; and this lone place, O'er-shadowy, dark, excludeth hence All thoughts but grief and penitence." "_Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid! And wherefore in this barren shade Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed? Can thing so fair repentance need?_" "Oh! I have done a deed of shame, And tainted is my virgin fame, And stain'd the beauteous maiden white In which my bridal robes were dight." "_And who the promis'd spouse declare, And what those bridal garments were_?" "Severe and saintly righteousness Compos'd the clear white bridal dress; Jesus, the son of Heaven's high King Bought with his blood the marriage ring. "A wretched sinful creature, I Deem'd lightly of that sacred tye, Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart, And play'd the foolish wanton's part. "Soon to these murky shades I came To hide from the Sun's light my shame-- And still I haunt this woody dell, And bathe me in that healing well, Whose waters clear have influence From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse; And night and day I them augment With tears, like a true Penitent, Until, due expiation made, And fit atonement fully paid, The Lord and Bridegroom me present Where in sweet strains of high consent, God's throne before, the Seraphim Shall chaunt the extatic marriage hymn." "_Now Christ restore thee soon_"--I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled. The above you will please to print immediately before the blank verse fragments. Tell me if you like it. I fear the latter half is unequal to the former, in parts of which I think you will discover a delicacy of pencilling not quite un-Spenser-like. The latter half aims at the _measure_, but has failed to attain the _poetry_, of Milton in his "Comus" and Fletcher in that exquisite thing ycleped the "Faithful Shepherdess," where they both use eight-syllable lines. But this latter half was finished in great haste, and as a task, not from that impulse which affects the name of inspiration. By the way, I have lit upon Fairfax's "Godfrey of Bullen" for half-a-crown. Rejoice with me. Poor dear Lloyd! I had a letter from him yesterday; his state of mind is truly alarming. He has, by his own confession, kept a letter of mine unopened three weeks, afraid, he says, to open it, lest I should speak upbraidingly to him; and yet this very letter of mine was in answer to one, wherein he informed me that an alarming illness had alone prevented him from writing. You will pray with me, I know, for his recovery; for surely, Coleridge, an exquisiteness of feeling like this must border on derangement. But I love him more and more, and will not give up the hope of his speedy recovery, as he tells me he is under Dr. Darwin's regimen. God bless us all, and shield us from insanity, which is "the sorest malady of all." My kind love to your wife and child. C. LAMB. Pray write, now. [I have placed the poem at the head from the text of Coleridge's _Poems_, 1797; but the version of the letter very likely differed (see next letter for at least one alteration). Fairfax's _Godfrey of Bullen_ was his translation of Tasso, which is mentioned above. Lloyd, who was undergoing one of those attacks of acute melancholia to which he was subject all his life, had been sent to Lichfield where Erasmus Darwin had established a sanatorium. "The sorest malady of all." From Lamb's lines to Cowper.] LETTER 26 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE [Tuesday,] June 13th, 1797. I stared with wild wonderment to see thy well-known hand again. It revived many a pleasing recollection of an epistolary intercourse, of late strangely suspended, once the pride of my life. Before I even opened thy letter, I figured to myself a sort of complacency which my little hoard at home would feel at receiving the new-comer into the little drawer where I keep my treasures of this kind. You have done well in writing to me. The little room (was it not a little one?) at the Salutation was already in the way of becoming a fading idea! it had begun to be classed in my memory with those "wanderings with a fair hair'd maid," in the recollection of which I feel I have no property. You press me, very kindly do you press me, to come to Stowey; obstacles, strong as death, prevent me at present; maybe I shall be able to come before the year is out; believe me, I will come as soon as I can, but I dread naming a probable time. It depends on fifty things, besides the expense, which is not nothing. Lloyd wants me to come and see him; but, besides that you have a prior claim on me, I should not feel myself so much at home with him, till he gets a house of his own. As to Richardson, caprice may grant what caprice only refused, and it is no more hardship, rightly considered, to be dependent on him for pleasure, than to lie at the mercy of the rain and sunshine for the enjoyment of a holiday: in either case we are not to look for a suspension of the laws of nature. "Grill will be Grill." Vide Spenser. I could not but smile at the compromise you make with me for printing Lloyd's poems first; but there is [are] in nature, I fear, too many tendencies to envy and jealousy not to justify you in your apology. Yet, if any one is welcome to pre-eminence from me, it is Lloyd, for he would be the last to desire it. So pray, let his name _uniformly_ precede mine, for it would be treating me like a child to suppose it could give me pain. Yet, alas! I am not insusceptible of the bad passions. Thank God, I have the ingenuousness to be ashamed of them. I am dearly fond of Charles Lloyd; he is all goodness, and I have too much of the world in my composition to feel myself thoroughly deserving of his friendship. Lloyd tells me that Sheridan put you upon writing your tragedy. I hope you are only Coleridgeizing when you talk of finishing it in a few days. Shakspeare was a more modest man; but you best know your own power. Of my last poem you speak slightingly; surely the longer stanzas were pretty tolerable; at least there was one good line in it, "Thick-shaded trees, with dark green leaf rich clad." To adopt your own expression, I call this a "rich" line, a fine full line. And some others I thought even beautiful. Believe me, my little gentleman will feel some repugnance at riding behind in the basket; though, I confess, in pretty good company. Your picture of idiocy, with the sugar-loaf head, is exquisite; but are you not too severe upon our more favoured brethren in fatuity? Lloyd tells me how ill your wife and child have been. I rejoice that they are better. My kindest remembrances and those of my sister. I send you a trifling letter; but you have only to think that I have been skimming the superficies of my mind, and found it only froth. Now, do write again; you cannot believe how I long and love always to hear about you. Yours, most affectionately, CHARLES LAMB. Monday Night. ["Little drawer where I keep ..." Lamb soon lost the habit of keeping any letters, except Manning's. "Wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid." Lamb's own line. See sonnet quoted above. Lamb's visit to Stowey was made in July, as we shall see. "Grill will be Grill." See the _Faerie Queene_, Book II., Canto 12, Stanzas 86 and 87. "Let Gryll be Gryll" is the right text. Lloyd had joined the poetical partnership, and his poems were to precede Lamb's in the 1797 volume. "Lloyd's connections," Coleridge had written to Cottle, "will take off a great many [copies], more than a hundred." Coleridge's tragedy was "Osorio," of which we hear first in March, 1797, when Coleridge tells Cottle that Sheridan has asked him to write a play for Drury Lane. It was finished in October, and rejected. In 1813, much altered, it was performed under its new title, "Remorse," and published in book form. Lamb wrote the Prologue. The "last poem" of which Lamb speaks was "The Vision of Repentance." The good line was altered to-- "Wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad," when the poem appeared in the Appendix ("the basket," as Lamb calls it) of the 1797 volume. "Your picture of idiocy." Compare S. T. Coleridge to Thomas Poole, dated "Greta Hall, Oct. 5, 1801" (_Thomas Poole and His Friends_): "We passed a poor ideot boy, who exactly answered my description; he "'Stood in the sun, rocking his sugar-loaf head, And staring at a bough from morn to sunset, See-sawed his voice in inarticulate noises.'" See this passage, much altered, in "Remorse," II., I, 186-191. The lines do not occur in "Osorio," yet they, or something like them, must have been copied out by Coleridge for Lamb in June, 1797.] LETTER 27 (_Possibly only a fragment_) CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Saturday,] June 24th, 1797. Did you seize the grand opportunity of seeing Kosciusko while he was at Bristol? I never saw a hero; I wonder how they look. I have been reading a most curious romance-like work, called the "Life of John Buncle, Esq." 'Tis very interesting, and an extraordinary compound of all manner of subjects, from the depth of the ludicrous to the heights of sublime religious truth. There is much abstruse science in it above my cut and an infinite fund of pleasantry. John Buncle is a famous fine man, formed in nature's most eccentric hour. I am ashamed of what I write. But I have no topic to talk of. I see nobody, and sit, and read or walk, alone, and hear nothing. I am quite lost to conversation from disuse; and out of the sphere of my little family, who, I am thankful, are dearer and dearer to me every day, I see no face that brightens up at my approach. My friends are at a distance; worldly hopes are at a low ebb with me, and unworldly thoughts are not yet familiarised to me, though I occasionally indulge in them. Still I feel a calm not unlike content. I fear it is sometimes more akin to physical stupidity than to a heaven-flowing serenity and peace. What right have I to obtrude all this upon you? what is such a letter to you? and if I come to Stowey, what conversation can I furnish to compensate my friend for those stores of knowledge and of fancy, those delightful treasures of wisdom, which I know he will open to me? But it is better to give than to receive; and I was a very patient hearer and docile scholar in our winter evening meetings at Mr. May's; was I not, Col.? What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget. God love you and yours. C. L. Saturday. [Thaddeus Kosciusko (1746-1817), the Polish patriot, to whom Coleridge had a sonnet in his _Poems_, 1796, visited England and America after being liberated from prison on the accession of Paul I., and settled in France in 1798. _The Life of John Buncle, Esq._, a book which Lamb (and also Hazlitt) frequently praised, is a curious digressive novel, part religious, part roystering, and wholly eccentric and individual, by Thomas Amory, published, Vol. I., in 1756, and Vol. II., in 1766. "Mr. May's." See note to the first letter.] LETTER 28 (_Possibly only a fragment_) CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [No date. ? June 29, 1797.] I discern a possibility of my paying you a visit next week. May I, can I, shall I, come so soon? Have you _room_ for me, _leisure_ for me, and are you all pretty well? Tell me all this honestly--immediately. And by what _day_--coach could I come soonest and nearest to Stowey? A few months hence may suit you better; certainly me as well. If so, say so. I long, I yearn, with all the longings of a child do I desire to see you, to come among you--to see the young philosopher, to thank Sara for her last year's invitation in person--to read your tragedy--to read over together our little book--to breathe fresh air--to revive in me vivid images of "Salutation scenery." There is a sort of sacrilege in my letting such ideas slip out of my mind and memory. Still that knave Richardson remaineth--a thorn in the side of Hope, when she would lean towards Stowey. Here I will leave off, for I dislike to fill up this paper, which involves a question so connected with my heart and soul, with meaner matter or subjects to me less interesting. I can talk, as I can think, nothing else. C. LAMB. Thursday. ["Our little book." Coleridge's _Poems_, second edition. "Salutation scenery." See note to the first letter. "Richardson." See note on page 34.] LETTER 29 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [No date. Probably July 19 or 26, 1797.] I am scarcely yet so reconciled to the loss of you, or so subsided into my wonted uniformity of feeling, as to sit calmly down to think of you and write to you. But I reason myself into the belief that those few and pleasant holidays shall not have been spent in vain. I feel improvement in the recollection of many a casual conversation. The names of Tom Poole, of Wordsworth and his good sister, with thine and Sara's, are become "familiar in my mouth as household words." You would make me very happy, if you think W. has no objection, by transcribing for me that inscription of his. I have some scattered sentences ever floating on my memory, teasing me that I cannot remember more of it. You may believe I will make no improper use of it. Believe me I can think now of many subjects on which I had planned gaining information from you; but I forgot my "treasure's worth" while I possessed it. Your leg is now become to me a matter of much more importance--and many a little thing, which when I was present with you seemed scarce to _indent_ my notice, now presses painfully on my remembrance. Is the Patriot come yet? Are Wordsworth and his sister gone yet? I was looking out for John Thelwall all the way from Bridgewater, and had I met him, I think it would have moved almost me to tears. You will oblige me too by sending me my great-coat, which I left behind in the oblivious state the mind is thrown into at parting--is it not ridiculous that I sometimes envy that great-coat lingering so cunningly behind?--at present I have none--so send it me by a Stowey waggon, if there be such a thing, directing for C. L., No. 45, Chapel-Street, Pentonville, near London. But above all, _that Inscription!_--it will recall to me the tones of all your voices--and with them many a remembered kindness to one who could and can repay you all only by the silence of a grateful heart. I could not talk much, while I was with you, but my silence was not sullenness, nor I hope from any bad motive; but, in truth, disuse has made me awkward at it. I know I behaved myself, particularly at Tom Poole's, and at Cruikshank's, most like a sulky child; but company and converse are strange to me. It was kind in you all to endure me as you did. Are you and your dear Sara--to me also very dear, because very kind--agreed yet about the management of little Hartley? and how go on the little rogue's teeth? I will see White to-morrow, and he shall send you information on that matter; but as perhaps I can do it as well after talking with him, I will keep this letter open. My love and thanks to you and all of you. C. L. Wednesday Evening. [Lamb spent a week at Nether Stowey in July, 1797. Coleridge tells Southey of this visit in a letter written in that month: "Charles Lamb has been with me for a week. He left me Friday morning. The second day after Wordsworth [who had just left Racedown, near Crewkerne, for Alfoxden, near Stowey] came to me, dear Sara accidentally emptied a skillet of boiling milk on my foot, which confined me during the whole time of C. Lamb's stay and still prevents me from all walks longer than a furlong." This is the cause of Lamb's allusion to Coleridge's leg, and it also produced Coleridge's poem beginning "This lime-tree bower my prison," addressed to Lamb, which opens as follows, the friends in the fourth line being Lamb, Wordsworth and Dorothy Wordsworth. (Wordsworth was then twenty-seven. The _Lyrical Ballads_ were to be written in the next few months.) Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, Lam'd by the scathe of fire, lonely and faint, This lime-tree bower my prison! They, meantime My Friends, whom I may never meet again, On springy heath, along the hill-top edge Wander delighted, and look down, perchance, On that same rifted Dell, where many an ash Twists its wild limbs beside the ferny rock Whose plumy ferns forever nod and drip, Spray'd by the waterfall. But chiefly thou My gentle-hearted _Charles!_ thou who had pin'd And hunger'd after Nature many a year, In the great City pent, winning thy way With sad yet bowed soul, through evil and pain And strange calamity! Tom Poole was Thomas Poole (1765-1837), a wealthy tanner, and Coleridge's friend, correspondent and patron, who lived at Stowey. The Patriot and John Thelwall were one. See note on page 93. "That inscription," The "Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew Tree," written in 1795. Lamb refers to it again in 1815. The address at Pentonville is the first indication given by Lamb that he has left Little Queen Street. We last saw him there for certain in Letter 17 on December 9. The removal had been made probably at the end of 1796. John Cruikshank, a neighbour of Coleridge, had married a Miss Bude on the same day that Coleridge married Sara Flicker. Of the business connected with White we know nothing.] LETTER 30 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [P.M. August 24, 1797.] Poor Charles Lloyd came to me about a fortnight ago. He took the opportunity of Mr. Hawkes coming to London, and I think at his request, to come with him. It seemed to me, and he acknowledged it, that he had come to gain a little time and a little peace, before he made up his mind. He was a good deal perplexed what to do--wishing earnestly that he had never entered into engagements which he felt himself unable to fulfill, but which on Sophia's account he could not bring himself to relinquish. I could give him little advice or comfort, and feeling my own inability painfully, eagerly snatched at a proposal he made me to go to Southey's with him for a day or two. He then meant to return with me, who could stay only one night. While there, he at one time thought of going to consult you, but changed his intention and stayed behind with Southey, and wrote an explicit letter to Sophia. I came away on the Tuesday, and on the Saturday following, _last Saturday_, receiv'd a letter dated Bath, in which he said he was on his way to Birmingham,--that Southey was accompanying him,--and that he went for the purpose of persuading Sophia to a Scotch marriage--I greatly feared, that she would never consent to this, from what Lloyd had told me of her character. But waited most anxiously the result. Since then I have not had one letter. For God's sake, if you get any intelligence of or from Chas Lloyd, communicate it, for I am much alarmed. C. LAMB. I wrote to Burnett what I write now to you,--was it from him you heard, or elsewhere?-- He said if he _had_ come to you, he could never have brought himself to leave you. In all his distress he was sweetly and exemplarily calm and master of himself,--and seemed perfectly free from his disorder.-- How do you all at? [This letter is unimportant, except in showing Lamb's power of sharing his friends' troubles. Charles Lloyd was not married to Sophia Pemberton, of Birmingham, until 1799; nothing rash being done, as Lamb seems to think possible. The reference to Southey, who was at this time living at Burton, in Hampshire, throws some light on De Quincey's statement, in his "Autobiography," that owing to the objection of Miss Pemberton's parents to the match, Lloyd secured the assistance of Southey to carry the lady off. Burnett was George Burnett (1776?-1811), one of Coleridge's fellow Pantisocratists, whom we shall meet later. The "he" of the second postscript is not Burnett, but Lloyd.] LETTER 31 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [About September 20, 1797.] WRITTEN A TWELVEMONTH AFTER THE EVENTS [_Friday next, Coleridge, is the day on which my mother died._] Alas! how am I changed! where be the tears, The sobs and forced suspensions of the breath, And all the dull desertions of the heart With which I hung o'er my dear mother's corse? Where be the blest subsidings of the storm Within; the sweet resignedness of hope Drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love, In which I bow'd me to my Father's will? My God and my Redeemer, keep not thou My heart in brute and sensual thanklessness Seal'd up, oblivious ever of that dear grace, And health restor'd to my long-loved friend. Long loved, and worthy known! Thou didst not keep Her soul in death. O keep not now, my Lord, Thy servants in far worse--in spiritual death And darkness--blacker than those feared shadows O' the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms, Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul, And heal our cleansed bosoms of the wounds With which the world hath pierc'd us thro' and thro'! Give us new flesh, new birth; Elect of heaven May we become, in thine election sure Contain'd, and to one purpose steadfast drawn-- Our souls' salvation. Thou and I, dear friend, With filial recognition sweet, shall know One day the face of our dear mother in heaven, And her remember'd looks of love shall greet With answering looks of love, her placid smiles Meet with a smile as placid, and her hand With drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse. Be witness for me, Lord, I do not ask Those days of vanity to return again, (Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give), Vain loves, and "wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid;" (Child of the dust as I am), who so long My foolish heart steep'd in idolatry, And creature-loves. Forgive it, O my Maker! If in a mood of grief, I sin almost In sometimes brooding on the days long past, (And from the grave of time wishing them back), Days of a mother's fondness to her child-- Her little one! Oh, where be now those sports And infant play-games? Where the joyous troops Of children, and the haunts I did so love? 0 my companions! O ye loved names Of friend, or playmate dear, gone are ye now. Gone divers ways; to honour and credit some: And some, I fear, to ignominy and shame! I only am left, with unavailing grief One parent dead to mourn, and see one live Of all life's joys bereft, and desolate: Am left, with a few friends, and one above The rest, found faithful in a length of years, Contented as I may, to bear me on, T' the not unpeaceful evening of a day Made black by morning storms. The following I wrote when I had returned from C. Lloyd, leaving him behind at Burton with Southey. To understand some of it, you must remember that at that time he was very much perplexed in mind. A stranger and alone, I past those scenes We past so late together; and my heart Felt something like desertion, as I look'd Around me, and the pleasant voice of friend Was absent, and the cordial look was there No more, to smile on me. I thought on Lloyd-- All he had been to me! And now I go Again to mingle with a world impure; With men who make a mock of holy things, Mistaken, and of man's best hope think scorn. The world does much to warp the heart of man; And I may sometimes join its idiot laugh: Of this I now complain not. Deal with me, Omniscient Father, as Thou judgest best, And in _Thy_ season soften thou my heart. I pray not for myself: I pray for him Whose soul is sore perplexed. Shine thou on him, Father of Lights! and in the difficult paths Make plain his way before him: his own thoughts May he not think--his own ends not pursue-- So shall he best perform Thy will on earth. Greatest and Best, Thy will be ever ours! The former of these poems I wrote with unusual celerity t'other morning at office. I expect you to like it better than anything of mine; Lloyd does, and I do myself. You use Lloyd very ill, never writing to him. I tell you again that his is not a mind with which you should play tricks. He deserves more tenderness from you. For myself, I must spoil a little passage of Beaumont and Fletcher to adapt it to my feelings:-- "I am prouder That I was once your friend, tho' now forgot, Than to have had another true to me." If you don't write to me now, as I told Lloyd, I shall get angry, and call you hard names--Manchineel and I don't know what else. I wish you would send me my great-coat. The snow and the rain season is at hand, and I have but a wretched old coat, once my father's, to keep 'em off, and that is transitory. "When time drives flocks from field to fold, When ways grow foul and blood gets cold," I shall remember where I left my coat. Meet emblem wilt thou be, old Winter, of a friend's neglect--cold, cold, cold! Remembrance where remembrance is due. C. LAMB. [The two poems included in this letter were printed in _Blank Verse_, a volume which Lamb and Lloyd issued in 1798. Coleridge had written to Lloyd, we know, as late as July, because he sent him a version of the poem "This Lime-tree Bower, my Prison;" but a coolness that was to ripen into positive hostility had already begun. Of this we shall see more later. The passage from Beaumont and Fletcher is in "The Maid's Tragedy" (Act II., Scene I), where Aspatia says to Amintor:-- Thus I wind myself Into this willow garland, and am prouder That I was once your love (though now refus'd) Than to have had another true to me. The scene is in Lamb's _Dramatic Specimens_. The reference to Manchineel is explained by a passage in Coleridge's dedication of his 1797 volume, then just published, to his brother, the Rev. George Coleridge, where, speaking of the friends he had known, he says:-- and some most false, False and fair-foliag'd as the Manchineel, Have tempted me to slumber in their shade --the manchineel being a poisonous West Indian tree. Between this and the next letter probably came correspondence that has now been lost.] LETTER 32 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE January 28th, 1798. You have writ me many kind letters, and I have answered none of them. I don't deserve your attentions. An unnatural indifference has been creeping on me since my last misfortunes, or I should have seized the first opening of a correspondence with _you_. To you I owe much under God. In my brief acquaintance with you in London, your conversations won me to the better cause, and rescued me from the polluting spirit of the world. I might have been a worthless character without you; as it is, I do possess a certain improvable portion of devotional feelings, tho' when I view myself in the light of divine truth, and not according to the common measures of human judgment, I am altogether corrupt and sinful. This is no cant. I am very sincere. These last afflictions, Coleridge, have failed to soften and bend my will. They found me unprepared. My former calamities produced in me a spirit of humility and a spirit of prayer. I thought they had sufficiently disciplined me; but the event ought to humble me. If God's judgments now fail to take away from me the heart of stone, what more grievous trials ought I not to expect? I have been very querulous, impatient under the rod--full of little jealousies and heartburnings.--I had well nigh quarrelled with Charles Lloyd; and for no other reason, I believe, than that the good creature did all he could to make me happy. The truth is, I thought he tried to force my mind from its natural and proper bent; he continually wished me to be from home; he was drawing me _from_ the consideration of my poor dear Mary's situation, rather than assisting me to gain a proper view of it with religious consolations. I wanted to be left to the tendency of my own mind in a solitary state which, in times past, I knew had led to quietness and a patient bearing of the yoke. He was hurt that I was not more constantly with him; but he was living with White, a man to whom I had never been accustomed to impart my _dearest feelings_, tho' from long habits of friendliness, and many a social and good quality, I loved him very much. I met company there sometimes--indiscriminate company. Any society almost, when I am in affliction, is sorely painful to me. I seem to breathe more freely, to think more collectedly, to feel more properly and calmly, when alone. All these things the good creature did with the kindest intentions in the world, but they produced in me nothing but soreness and discontent. I became, as he complained, "jaundiced" towards him ... but he has forgiven me--and his smile, I hope, will draw all such humours from me. I am recovering, God be praised for it, a healthiness of mind, something like calmness--but I want more religion--I am jealous of human helps and leaning-places. I rejoice in your good fortunes. May God at the last settle you!--You have had many and painful trials; humanly speaking they are going to end; but we should rather pray that discipline may attend us thro' the whole of our lives ... A careless and a dissolute spirit has advanced upon _me_ with large strides--pray God that my present afflictions may be sanctified to me! Mary is recovering, but I see no opening yet of a situation for her; your invitation went to my very heart, but you have a power of exciting interest, of leading all hearts captive, too forcible to admit of Mary's being with you. I consider her as perpetually on the brink of madness. I think you would almost make her dance within an inch of the precipice: she must be with duller fancies and cooler intellects. I know a young man of this description, who has suited her these twenty years, and may live to do so still, if we are one day restored to each other. In answer to your suggestions of occupation for me, I must say that I do not think my capacity altogether suited for disquisitions of that kind.... I have read little, I have a very weak memory, and retain little of what I read; am unused to composition in which any methodising is required; but I thank you sincerely for the hint, and shall receive it as far as I am able: that is, endeavour to engage my mind in some constant and innocent pursuit. I know my capacities better than you do. Accept my kindest love, and believe me yours, as ever. C. L. [The first letter that has been preserved since September of the previous year. In the meantime Lamb had begun to work on _Rosamund Gray_, probably upon an impulse gained from the visit to Stowey, and was also arranging to join Lloyd, who was living in London with White, in the volume of poems to be called _Blank Verse_. Southey, writing many years later to Edward Moxon, said of Lloyd and White: "No two men could be imagined more unlike each other; Lloyd had no drollery in his nature; White seemed to have nothing else. You will easily understand how Lamb could sympathise with both." The new calamity to which Lamb refers in this letter was probably a relapse in Mary Lamb's condition. When he last mentioned her she was so far better as to be able to be moved into lodgings at Hackney: all that good was now undone. Coleridge seems to have suggested that she should visit Stowey. It was about this time that Lamb wrote the poem "The Old Familiar Faces," which I quote below in its original form, afterwards changed by the omission of the first four lines:-- THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES Where are they gone, the old familiar faces? I had a mother, but she died, and left me, Died prematurely in a day of horrors-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women. Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man. Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother! Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces. For some they have died, and some they have left me, _And some are taken from me_; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. January, 1798. It is conjectured by Mr. J. A. Rutter, and there is much reason to believe it a right theory, especially when taken into connection with the present letter, that Lloyd was the friend of the fifth stanza and Coleridge the friend of the seventh. The italicised half line might refer to "Anna," but, since she is mentioned in the fourth stanza, it more probably, I think, refers to Mary Lamb, who, as we have seen, had been so ill as to necessitate removal from Hackney into more special confinement again. The letter was addressed to Coleridge at the Reverend A. Rowe's, Shrewsbury. Coleridge had been offered the Unitarian pulpit at Shrewsbury and was on the point of accepting when he received news of the annuity of L150 which Josiah and Thomas Wedgwood had settled upon him. Between this letter and the next certainly came other letters to Coleridge, now lost, one of which is referred to by Coleridge in the letter to Lamb quoted below.] LETTER 33 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [No date. Early Summer, 1798.] THESES QUAEDAM THEOLOGICAE 1. Whether God loves a lying Angel better than a true Man? 2. Whether the Archangel Uriel _could_ affirm an untruth? and if he _could_ whether he _would_? 3. Whether Honesty be an angelic virtue? or not rather to be reckoned among those qualities which the Schoolmen term '_Virtutes minus splendidoe et terrae et hominis participes_'? 4. Whether the higher order of Seraphim Illuminati ever sneer? 5. Whether pure intelligences can love? 6. Whether the Seraphim Ardentes do not manifest their virtues by the way of vision and theory? and whether practice be not a sub-celestial and merely human virtue? 7. Whether the Vision Beatific be anything more or less than a perpetual representment to each individual Angel of his own present attainments and future capabilities, somehow in the manner of mortal looking-glasses, reflecting a perpetual complacency and self-satisfaction? 8 and last. Whether an immortal and amenable soul may not come to be damned at last, and the man never suspect it beforehand? _Learned Sir, my Friend_, Presuming on our long habits of friendship and emboldened further by your late liberal permission to avail myself of your correspondence, in case I want any knowledge, (which I intend to do when I have no Encyclopaedia or Lady's Magazine at hand to refer to in any matter of science,) I now submit to your enquiries the above Theological Propositions, to be by you defended, or oppugned, or both, in the Schools of Germany, whither I am told you are departing, to the utter dissatisfaction of your native Devonshire and regret of universal England; but to my own individual consolation if thro' the channel of your wished return, Learned Sir, my Friend, may be transmitted to this our Island, from those famous Theological Wits of Leipsic and Gottingen, any rays of illumination, in vain to be derived from the home growth of our English Halls and Colleges. Finally, wishing, Learned Sir, that you may see Schiller and swing in a wood (_vide_ Poems) and sit upon a Tun, and eat fat hams of Westphalia, I remain, Your friend and docile Pupil to instruct CHARLES LAMB. 1798. To S. T. Coleridge. [Lamb's last letter to Coleridge for two years. See note to the next letter. Lamb's reading of Thomas Aquinas probably was at the base of his theses. William Godwin, in his "History of Knowledge, Learning and Taste in Great Britain," which had run through some years of the _New Annual Register_, cited, in 1786, a number of the more grotesque queries of the old Schoolmen. Mr. Kegan Paul suggested that Lamb went to Godwin for his examination paper; but I should think this very unlikely. Some of the questions hit Coleridge very hard. This letter was first printed by Joseph Cottle in his _Early Recollections_, 1837, with the remark: "Mr. Coleridge gave me this letter, saying, 'These young visionaries will do each other no good.'" It marks an epoch in Lamb's life, since it brought about, or, at any rate, clinched, the only quarrel that ever subsisted between Coleridge and himself. The story is told in _Charles Lamb and the Lloyds_. Briefly, Lloyd had left Coleridge in the spring of 1797; a little later, in a state of much perplexity, he had carried his troubles to Lamb, and to Southey, between whom and Coleridge no very cordial feeling had existed for some time, rather than to Coleridge himself, his late mentor. That probably fanned the flame. The next move came from Coleridge. He printed in the _Monthly Magazine_ for November, 1797, three sonnets signed Nehemiah Higginbottom, burlesquing instances of "affectation of unaffectedness," and "puny pathos" in the poems of himself, of Lamb, and of Lloyd, the humour of which Lamb probably did not much appreciate, since he believed in the feelings expressed in his verse, while Lloyd was certainly unfitted to esteem it. Coleridge effected even more than he had contemplated, for Southey took the sonnet upon Simplicity as an attack upon himself, which did not, however, prevent him, a little later, from a similar exercise in ponderous humour under the too similar name of Abel Shufflebottom. In March, 1798, when a new edition of Coleridge's 1797 _Poems_ was in contemplation, Lloyd wrote to Cottle, the publisher, asking that he would persuade Coleridge to omit his (Lloyd's) portion, a request which Coleridge probably resented, but which gave him the opportunity of replying that no persuasion was needed for the omission of verses published at the earnest request of the author. Meanwhile a worse offence than all against Coleridge was perpetrated by Lloyd. In the spring of 1798 was published at Bristol his novel, Edmund Oliver, dedicated to Lamb, in which Coleridge's experiences in the army, under the alias of Silas Tomkyn Comberback, in 1793-1794, and certain of Coleridge's peculiarities, including his drug habit, were utilised. Added to this, Lloyd seems to have repeated both to Lamb and Southey, in distorted form, certain things which Coleridge had said of them, either in confidence, or, at any rate, with no wish that they should be repeated; with the result that Lamb actually went so far as to take sides with Lloyd against his older friend. The following extracts from a letter from Coleridge to Lamb, which I am permitted by Mr. Ernest Hartley Coleridge to print, carries the story a little farther:-- [Spring of 1798.] Dear Lamb,--Lloyd has informed me through Miss Wordsworth that you intend no longer to correspond with me. This has given me little pain; not that I do not love and esteem you, but on the contrary because I am confident that your intentions are pure. You are performing what you deem a duty, and humanly speaking have that merit which can be derived from the performance of a painful duty. Painful, for you would not without struggles abandon me in behalf of a man [Lloyd] who, wholly ignorant of all but your name, became attached to you in consequence of my attachment, caught _his_ from _my_ enthusiasm, and learned to love you at my fireside, when often while I have been sitting and talking of your sorrows and afflictions I have stopped my conversations and lifted up wet eyes and prayed for you. No! I am confident that although you do not think as a wise man, you feel as a good man. From you I have received little pain, because for you I suffer little alarm. I cannot say this for your friend; it appears to me evident that his feelings are vitiated, and that his ideas are in their combination merely the creatures of those feelings. I have received letters from him, and the best and kindest wish which, as a Christian, I can offer in return is that he may feel remorse.... When I wrote to you that my Sonnet to Simplicity was not composed with reference to Southey, you answered me (I believe these were the words): "It was a lie too gross for the grossest ignorance to believe;" and I was not angry with you, because the assertion which the grossest ignorance would believe a lie the Omniscient knew to be truth. This, however, makes me cautious not too hastily to affirm the falsehood of an assertion of Lloyd's that in Edmund Oliver's love-fit, leaving college, and going into the army he had no sort of allusion to or recollection of my love-fit, leaving college, and going into the army, and that he never thought of my person in the description of Oliver's person in the first letter of the second volume. This cannot appear stranger to me than my assertion did to you, and therefore I will suspend my absolute faith.... I have been unfortunate in my connections. Both you and Lloyd became acquainted with me when your minds were far from being in a composed or natural state, and you clothed my image with a suit of notions and feelings which could belong to nothing human. You are restored to comparative saneness, and are merely wondering what is become of the Coleridge with whom you were so passionately in love; _Charles Lloyd's_ mind has only changed his disease, and he is now arraying his ci-devant Angel in a flaming San Benito--the whole ground of the garment a dark brimstone and plenty of little devils flourished out in black. Oh, me! Lamb, "even in laughter the heart is sad!"... God bless you S. T. COLERIDGE. One other passage. In a letter from Lloyd at Birmingham to Cottle, dated June, 1798, Lloyd says, in response to Cottle's suggestion that he should visit Coleridge, "I love Coleridge, and can forget all that has happened. At present I could not well go to Stowey.... Lamb quitted me yesterday, after a fortnight's visit. I have been much interested in his society. I never knew him so happy in my life. I shall write to Coleridge to-day." Coleridge left for Germany in September. "Schiller and swing in a wood." An allusion to Coleridge's sonnet to Schiller:-- Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity! Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Wand'ring at eve with finely-frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! Here should perhaps come Lamb's first letter to Robert Lloyd, not available for this edition, but printed by Canon Ainger, and in _Charles Lamb and the Lloyds_, where it is dated October. Lamb's first letter is one of advice, apparently in reply to some complaints of his position addressed to him by Lloyd. A second and longer letter which, though belonging to August, 1798, may be mentioned here, also counsels, commending the use of patience and humility. Lamb is here seen in the character of a spiritual adviser. The letter is unique in his correspondence. Robert Lloyd was a younger brother of Charles Lloyd, and Lamb had probably met him when on his visit to Birmingham in the summer. The boy, then not quite twenty, was apprenticed to a Quaker draper at Saffron Walden in Essex.] LETTER 34 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Saturday, July 28th, 1798. I am ashamed that I have not thanked you before this for the "Joan of Arc," but I did not know your address, and it did not occur to me to write through Cottle. The poem delighted me, and the notes amused me, but methinks she of Neufchatel, in the print, holds her sword too "like a dancer." I sent your _notice_ to Phillips, particularly requesting an immediate insertion, but I suppose it came too late. I am sometimes curious to know what progress you make in that same "Calendar:" whether you insert the nine worthies and Whittington? what you do or how you can manage when two Saints meet and quarrel for precedency? Martlemas, and Candlemas, and Christmas, are glorious themes for a writer like you, antiquity-bitten, smit with the love of boars' heads and rosemary; but how you can ennoble the 1st of April I know not. By the way I had a thing to say, but a certain false modesty has hitherto prevented me: perhaps I can best communicate my wish by a hint,--my birthday is on the 10th of February, New Style; but if it interferes with any remarkable event, why rather than my country should lose her fame, I care not if I put my nativity back eleven days. Fine family patronage for your "Calendar," if that old lady of prolific memory were living, who lies (or lyes) in some church in London (saints forgive me, but I have forgot _what_ church), attesting that enormous legend of as many children as days in the year. I marvel her impudence did not grasp at a leap-year. Three hundred and sixty-five dedications, and all in a family--you might spit in spirit on the oneness of Maecenas' patronage! Samuel Taylor Coleridge, to the eternal regret of his native Devonshire, emigrates to Westphalia--"Poor Lamb (these were his last words), if he wants any _knowledge_, he may apply to me,"--in ordinary cases, I thanked him, I have an "Encyclopaedia" at hand, but on such an occasion as going over to a German university, I could not refrain from sending him the following propositions, to be by him defended or oppugned (or both) at Leipsic or Gottingen. THESES QUAEDAM THEOLOGICAE I "Whether God loves a lying angel better than a true man?" II "Whether the archangel Uriel _could_ knowingly affirm an untruth, and whether, if he _could_, he _would_?" III "Whether honesty be an angelic virtue, or not rather belonging to that class of qualities which the schoolmen term 'virtutes minus splendidae et hominis et terrae nimis participes?'" IV "Whether the seraphim ardentes do not manifest their goodness by the way of vision and theory? and whether practice be not a sub-celestial, and merely human virtue?" V "Whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever _sneer_?" VI "Whether pure intelligences can _love_, or whether they love anything besides pure intellect?" VII "Whether the beatific vision be anything more or less than a perpetual representment to each individual angel of his own present attainments, and future capabilities, something in the manner of mortal looking-glasses?" VIII "Whether an 'immortal and amenable soul' may not come _to be damned at last, and the man never suspect it beforehand_?" Samuel Taylor C. had not deigned an answer; was it impertinent of me to avail myself of that offered source of knowledge? Lloyd is returned to town from Ipswich where he has been with his brother. He has brought home three acts of a Play which I have not yet read. The scene for the most part laid in a Brothel. O tempora, O mores! but as friend Coleridge said when he was talking bawdy to Miss ---- "to the pure all things are pure." Wishing "Madoc" may be born into the world with as splendid promise as the second birth or purification of the Maid of Neufchatel,--I remain yours sincerely, C. LAMB. I hope Edith is better; my kindest remembrances to her. You have a good deal of trifling to forgive in this letter. [This is Lamb's first letter to Southey that has been preserved. Probably others came before it. Southey now becomes Lamb's chief correspondent for some months. In Canon Ainger's transcript the letter ends with "Love and remembrances to Cottle." Southey's _Joan of Arc_, second edition, had been published by Cottle in 1798. It has no frontispiece: the print of Joan of Arc must have come separately. Phillips was Sir Richard Phillips (1767-1840), editor of the _Monthly Magazine_ and the publisher satirised in Sorrow's _Lavengro_. The Calendar ultimately became the _Annual Anthology_. Southey had at first an idea of making it a poetical calendar or almanac. "That old lady of prolific memory." Lamb is thinking, I imagine, of the story in Howell's _Familiar Letters_ (also in Evelyn's _Diary_) of the "Wonder of Nature" near the Hague. "That Wonder of Nature is a Church-monument, where an Earl and a Lady are engraven with 365 Children about them, which were all deliver'd at one Birth." The story tells that a beggar woman with twins asked alms of the Countess, who denying that it was possible for two children to be born at once and vilifying the beggar, that woman cursed her and called upon God to show His judgment upon her by causing her to bear "at one birth as many Children as there are days in the year, which she did before the same year's end, having never born Child before." Howell seems to have been convinced of the authenticity of the story by the spectacle of the christening basin used by the family. The beggar, who spoke on the third day of the year, meant as many days as had been in that year--three. Edith was Southey's wife.] LETTER 35 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Oct. 18th, 1798. Dear Southey,--I have at last been so fortunate as to pick up Wither's Emblems for you, that "old book and quaint," as the brief author of "Rosamund Gray" hath it; it is in a most detestable state of preservation, and the cuts are of a fainter impression than I have seen. Some child, the curse of antiquaries and bane of bibliopolical rarities, hath been dabbling in some of them with its paint and dirty fingers, and in particular hath a little sullied the author's own portraiture, which I think valuable, as the poem that accompanies it is no common one; this last excepted, the Emblems are far inferior to old Quarles. I once told you otherwise, but I had not then read old Q. with attention. I have picked up, too, another copy of Quarles for ninepence!!! O tempora! O lectores!--so that if you have lost or parted with your own copy, say so, and I can furnish you, for you prize these things more than I do. You will be amused, I think, with honest Wither's "Supersedeas to all them whose custom it is, without any deserving, to importune authors to give unto them their books." I am sorry 'tis imperfect, as the lottery board annexed to it also is. Methinks you might modernise and elegantise this Supersedeas, and place it in front of your "Joan of Arc," as a gentle hint to Messrs. Park, &c. One of the happiest emblems and comicalest cuts is the owl and little chirpers, page 63. Wishing you all amusement, which your true emblem-fancier can scarce fail to find in even bad emblems, I remain your caterer to command, C. LAMB. Love and respects to Edith. I hope she is well. How does your Calendar prosper? [This letter contains Lamb's first reference to _Rosamund Gray_, his only novel, which had been published a little earlier in the year. "Wither's _Emblems_, an 'old book and quaint,'" was one of the few volumes belonging to old Margaret, Rosamund's grandmother (Chapter I). See next letter and note. Wither's _Emblems_ was published in 1635; Quarles' in the same year. I give Wither's "Supersedeas" in the Appendix to my large edition, vol. vii., together with a reproduction of the owl and little chirpers from the edition of 1635.] LETTER 36 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY [October 29, 1798.] Dear Southey,--I thank you heartily for the Eclogue; it pleases me mightily, being so full of picture-work and circumstances. I find no fault in it, unless perhaps that Joanna's ruin is a catastrophe too trite: and this is not the first or second time you have clothed your indignation, in verse, in a tale of ruined innocence. The old lady, spinning in the sun, I hope would not disdain to claim some kindred with old Margaret. I could almost wish you to vary some circumstances in the conclusion. A gentleman seducer has so often been described in prose and verse; what if you had accomplished Joanna's ruin by the clumsy arts and rustic gifts of some country-fellow? I am thinking, I believe, of the song, "An old woman clothed in grey, Whose daughter was charming and young, And she was deluded away By Roger's false nattering tongue." A Roger-Lothario would be a novel character: I think you might paint him very well. You may think this a very silly suggestion, and so, indeed, it is; but, in good truth, nothing else but the first words of that foolish ballad put me upon scribbling my "Rosamund." But I thank you heartily for the poem. Not having anything of my own to send you in return--though, to tell truth, I am at work upon something, which if I were to cut away and garble, perhaps I might send you an extract or two that might not displease you; but I will not do that; and whether it will come to anything, I know not, for I am as slow as a Fleming painter when I compose anything. I will crave leave to put down a few lines of old Christopher Marlow's; I take them from his tragedy, "The Jew of Malta." The Jew is a famous character, quite out of nature; but, when we consider the terrible idea our simple ancestors had of a Jew, not more to be discommended for a certain discolouring (I think Addison calls it) than the witches and fairies of Marlow's mighty successor. The scene is betwixt Barabas, the Jew, and Ithamora, a Turkish captive exposed to sale for a slave. BARABAS (_A precious rascal_.) "As for myself, I walk abroad a-nights, And kill sick people groaning under walls: Sometimes I go about, and poison wells; And now and then, to cherish Christian thieves, I am content to lose some of my crowns, That I may, walking in my gallery, See'm go pinioned along by my door. Being young, I studied physic, and began To practise first upon the Italian: There I enriched the priests with burials, And always kept the sexton's arms in ure With digging graves and ringing dead men's knells; And, after that, was I an engineer, And in the wars 'twixt France and Germany, Under pretence of serving [helping] Charles the Fifth, Slew friend and enemy with my stratagems. Then after that was I an usurer, And with extorting, cozening, forfeiting, And tricks belonging unto brokery, I fill'd the jails with bankrupts in a year, And with young orphans planted hospitals, And every moon made some or other mad; And now and then one hang'd himself for grief, Pinning upon his breast a long great scroll. How I with interest tormented him." Now hear Ithamore, the other gentle nature, explain how he spent his time:-- ITHAMORE (_A comical dog_.) "Faith, master, in setting Christian villages on fire, Chaining of eunuchs, binding galley-slaves. One time I was an hostler at [in] an inn, And in the night-time secretly would I steal To travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats. Once at Jerusalem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, I strowed powder on the marble stones, And therewithal their knees would rankle so, That I have laugh'd a-good to see the cripples Go limping home to Christendom on stilts." BARABAS "Why, this is something"-- There is a mixture of the ludicrous and the terrible in these lines, brimful of genius and antique invention, that at first reminded me of your old description of cruelty in hell, which was in the true Hogarthian style. I need not tell _you_ that Marlow was author of that pretty madrigal, "Come live with me, and be my Love," and of the tragedy of "Edward II.," in which are certain _lines_ unequalled in our English tongue. Honest Walton mentions the said madrigal under the denomination of "certain smooth verses made long since by Kit Marlow." I am glad you have put me on the scent after old Quarles. If I do not put up those eclogues, and that shortly, say I am no true-nosed hound. I have had a letter from Lloyd; the young metaphysician of Caius is well, and is busy recanting the new heresy, metaphysics, for the old dogma, Greek. My sister, I thank you, is quite well. She had a slight attack the other day, which frightened me a good deal; but it went off unaccountably. Love and respects to Edith. Yours sincerely, C. LAMB. [The eclogue was "The Ruined Cottage," in which Joanna and her widowed mother are at first as happy as Rosamund Gray and old blind Margaret. As in Lamb's story so in Southey's poem, this state of felicity is overturned by a seducer. "An old woman clothed in gray." This ballad still eludes research. Lamb says that the first line put him upon writing _Rosamund Gray_, but he is generally supposed to have taken his heroine's name from a song by Charles Lloyd, entitled "Rosamund Gray," published among his _Poems_ in 1795. At the end of the novel Matravis, the seducer, in his ravings, sings the ballad. The "something" upon which Lamb was then at work was his play "John Woodvil," in those early days known as "Pride's Cure." "Your old description of cruelty in hell." In "Joan of Arc." See Letter 3. "If I do not put up those eclogues." Lamb does not return to this subject. Lloyd had just gone to Cambridge, to Caius College.] LETTER 37 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Nov. 3, 1798. I have read your Eclogue ["The Wedding"] repeatedly, and cannot call it bald, or without interest; the cast of it, and the design are completely original, and may set people upon thinking: it is as poetical as the subject requires, which asks no poetry; but it is defective in pathos. The woman's own story is the tamest part of it--I should like you to remould that--it too much resembles the young maid's history: both had been in service. Even the omission would not injure the poem; after the words "growing wants," you might, not unconnectedly, introduce "look at that little chub" down to "welcome one." And, decidedly, I would have you end it somehow thus, "Give them at least this evening a good meal. _Gives her money_. Now, fare thee well; hereafter you have taught me To give sad meaning to the village-bells," &c., which would leave a stronger impression (as well as more pleasingly recall the beginning of the Eclogue), than the present common-place reference to a better world, which the woman "must have heard at church." I should like you, too, a good deal to enlarge the most striking part, as it might have been, of the poem--"Is it idleness?" &c., that affords a good field for dwelling on sickness and inabilities, and old age. And you might also a good deal enrich the piece with a picture of a country wedding: the woman might very well, in a transient fit of oblivion, dwell upon the ceremony and circumstances of her own nuptials six years ago, the smugness of the bride-groom, the feastings, the cheap merriment, the welcomings, and the secret envyings of the maidens--then dropping all this, recur to her present lot. I do not know that I can suggest anything else, or that I have suggested anything new or material. I shall be very glad to see some more poetry, though I fear your trouble in transcribing will be greater than the service my remarks may do them. Yours affectionately, C. LAMB. I cut my letter short because I am called off to business. LETTER 38 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Nov. 8th, 1798. I do not know that I much prefer this Eclogue [Lamb has received 'The Last of the Flock'] to the last ['The Wedding']; both are inferior to the former ['The Ruined Cottage']. "And when he came to shake me by the hand, And spake as kindly to me as he used, I hardly knew his voice--" is the only passage that affected me. Servants speak, and their language ought to be plain, and not much raised above the common, else I should find fault with the bathos of this passage: "And when I heard the bell strike out, I thought (what?) that I had never heard it toll So dismally before." I like the destruction of the martens' old nests hugely, having just such a circumstance in my memory.[1] I should be very glad to see your remaining Eclogue, if not too much trouble, as you give me reason to expect it will be the second best. I perfectly accord with your opinion of Old Wither. Quarles is a wittier writer, but Wither lays more hold of the heart. Quarles thinks of his audience when he lectures; Wither soliloquises in company with a full heart. What wretched stuff are the "Divine Fancies" of Quarles! Religion appears to him no longer valuable than it furnishes matter for quibbles and riddles; he turns God's grace into wantonness. Wither is like an old friend, whose warm-heartedness and estimable qualities make us wish he possessed more genius, but at the same time make us willing to dispense with that want. I always love W., and sometimes admire Q. Still that portrait poem is a fine one; and the extract from "The Shepherds' Hunting" places him in a starry height far above Quarles. If you wrote that review in "Crit. Rev.," I am sorry you are so sparing of praise to the "Ancient Marinere;"--so far from calling it, as you do, with some wit, but more severity, "A Dutch Attempt," &c., I call it a right English attempt, and a successful one, to dethrone German sublimity. You have selected a passage fertile in unmeaning miracles, but have passed by fifty passages as miraculous as the miracles they celebrate. I never so deeply felt the pathetic as in that part, "A spring of love gush'd from my heart, And I bless'd them unaware--" It stung me into high pleasure through sufferings. Lloyd does not like it; his head is too metaphysical, and your taste too correct; at least I must allege something against you both, to excuse my own dotage-- "So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be!"--&c., &c. But you allow some elaborate beauties--you should have extracted 'em. "The Ancient Marinere" plays more tricks with the mind than that last poem, which is yet one of the finest written. But I am getting too dogmatical; and before I degenerate into abuse, I will conclude with assuring you that I am Sincerely yours, C. LAMB. I am going to meet Lloyd at Ware on Saturday, to return on Sunday. Have you any commands or commendations to the metaphysician? I shall be very happy if you will dine or spend any time with me in your way through the great ugly city; but I know you have other ties upon you in these parts. Love and respects to Edith, and friendly remembrances to Cottle. [Footnote 1: The destruction of the martens' nests, in "The Last of the Family," runs thus:-- I remember, Eight months ago, when the young Squire began To alter the old mansion, they destroy'd The martins' nests, that had stood undisturb'd Under that roof, ... ay! long before my memory. I shook my head at seeing it, and thought No good could follow.] [Lamb's ripe judgment of Wither will be found in his essay "On the Poetical Works of George Wither," in the _Works_, 1818 (see Vol. I. of this edition). "The portrait poem" would be "The Author's Meditation upon Sight of His Picture," prefixed to _Emblems_, 1635. _Lyrical Ballads_, by Wordsworth and Coleridge, had just been published by Cottle. "The Ancient Mariner" stood first. "That last poem" was Wordsworth's "Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey." Southey (?) reviewed the book in the _Critical Review_ for October, 1798. Of the "Ancient Mariner" he said: "It is a Dutch attempt at German sublimity. Genius has here been employed in producing a poem of little merit." Here should come a letter from Lamb to Robert Lloyd, dated November 13, 1798, not available for this edition. Robert Lloyd seems to have said in his last letter that the world was drained of all its sweets. Lamb sends him a beautiful passage in praise of the world's good things--the first foretaste in the correspondence of his later ecstatic manner. Here also should come a letter from Lamb to Southey, which apparently does not now exist, containing "The Dying Lover," an extract from Lamb's play. I have taken the text from the version of the play sent to Manning late in 1800. THE DYING LOVER _Margaret_. ... I knew a youth who died For grief, because his Love proved so, And married to another. I saw him on the wedding day, For he was present in the church that day, And in his best apparel too, As one that came to grace the ceremony. I mark'd him when the ring was given, His countenance never changed; And when the priest pronounced the marriage blessing, He put a silent prayer up for the bride, _For they stood near who saw his lips move_. He came invited to the marriage-feast With the bride's friends, And was the merriest of them all that day; But they, who knew him best, call'd it feign'd mirth; And others said, He wore a smile like death's upon his face. His presence dash'd all the beholders' mirth, And he went away in tears. _Simon_. What followed then? _Marg_. Oh! then He did not as neglected suitors use Affect a life of solitude in shades, But lived, In free discourse and sweet society, Among his friends who knew his gentle nature best. Yet ever when he smiled, There was a mystery legible in his face, That whoso saw him said he was a man Not long for this world.-- And true it was, for even then The silent love was feeding at his heart Of which he died: Nor ever spake word of reproach, Only he wish'd in death that his remains Might find a poor grave in some spot, not far From his mistress' family vault, "being the place Where one day Anna should herself be laid." The line in italics Lamb crossed through in the Manning copy. The last four lines he crossed through and marked "_very_ bad." I have reproduced them here because of the autobiographical hint contained in the word Anna, which was the name given by Lamb to his "fair-haired maid" in his love sonnets.] LETTER 39 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY [Probably November, 1798.] The following is a second Extract from my Tragedy _that is to be_,--'tis narrated by an old Steward to Margaret, orphan ward of Sir Walter Woodvil;--this, and the Dying Lover I gave you, are the only extracts I can give without mutilation. I expect you to like the old woman's curse: _Old Steward_.--One summer night, Sir Walter, as it chanc'd, Was pacing to & fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Three hundred years ago By a neighb'ring Prior of the Woodvil name, But so it was, Being overtask't in thought, he heeded not The importune suitor who stood by the gate, And beg'd an alms. Some say he shov'd her rudely from the gate With angry chiding; but I can never think (Sir Walter's nature hath a sweetness in it) That he would use a woman--an old woman-- With such discourtesy; For old she was who beg'd an alms of him. Well, he refus'd her; Whether for importunity, I know not, Or that she came between his meditations. But better had he met a lion in the streets Than this old woman that night; For she was one who practis'd the black arts. And served the devil--being since burn'd for witchcraft. She look'd at him like one that meant to blast him, And with a frightful noise ('Twas partly like a woman's voice, And partly like the hissing of a snake) She nothing said but this (Sir Walter told the words): "A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times killing curse, By day and by night, to the caitive wight Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, And shuts up the womb of his purse; And a mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-fold withering curse,-- For that shall come to thee, that will render thee Both all that thou fear'st, and worse." These words four times repeated, she departed, Leaving Sir Walter like a man beneath Whose feet a scaffolding had suddenly fal'n: So he describ'd it. _Margaret_.--A terrible curse! _Old Steward_.--O Lady, such bad things are told of that old woman, As, namely, that the milk she gave was sour, And the babe who suck'd her shrivel'd like a mandrake; And things besides, with a bigger horror in them, Almost, I think, unlawful to be told! _Margaret_.--Then must I never hear them. But proceed, And say what follow'd on the witch's curse. _Old Steward_.--Nothing immediate; but some nine months after, Young Stephen Woodvil suddenly fell sick, And none could tell what ail'd him: for he lay, And pin'd, and pin'd, that all his hair came off; And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin As a two-months' babe that hath been starved in the nursing;-- And sure, I think, He bore his illness like a little child, With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, Which he would force up in his poor, pale cheeks, Like ill-tim'd guests that had no proper business there;-- And when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid His hand upon his heart to show the place Where Satan came to him a nights, he said, And prick'd him with a pin.-- And hereupon Sir Walter call'd to mind The Beggar Witch that stood in the gateway, And begg'd an alms-- _Margaret_.--I do not love to credit Tales of magic. Heav'n's music, which is order, seems unstrung; And this brave world, Creation's beauteous work, unbeautified, Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted. This is the extract I brag'd of, as superior to that I sent you from Marlow. Perhaps you smile; but I should like your remarks on the above, as you are deeper witch-read than I. [The passage quoted in this letter, with certain alterations, became afterwards "The Witch," a dramatic sketch independent of "John Woodvil." By the phrase "without mutilation," Lamb possibly means to suggest that Southey should print this sketch and "The Dying Lover" in the _Annual Anthology_. That was not, however, done. "The Witch" was first printed in the _Works_, 1818. Here should come a letter from Lamb to Robert Lloyd, postmarked November 20, 1798, not available for this edition. In this letter Lamb sends Lloyd the extract from "The Witch" that was sent to Southey.] LETTER 40 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Nov. 28th, 1798. I can have no objection to your printing "Mystery of God" with my name and all due acknowledgments for the honour and favour of the communication; indeed, 'tis a poem that can dishonour no name. Now, that is in the true strain of modern modesto-vanitas ... But for the sonnet, I heartily wish it, as I thought it was, dead and forgotten. If the exact circumstances under which I wrote could be known or told, it would be an interesting sonnet; but to an indifferent and stranger reader it must appear a very bald thing, certainly inadmissible in a compilation. I wish you could affix a different name to the volume; there is a contemptible book, a wretched assortment of vapid feelings, entitled "Pratt's Gleanings," which hath damned and impropriated the title for ever. Pray think of some other. The gentleman is better known (better had he remained unknown) by an Ode to Benevolence, written and spoken for and at the annual dinner of the Humane Society, who walk in procession once a-year, with all the objects of their charity before them, to return God thanks for giving them such benevolent hearts. I like "Bishop Bruno;" but not so abundantly as your "Witch Ballad," which is an exquisite thing of its kind. I showed my "Witch" and "Dying Lover" to Dyer last night; but George could not comprehend how that could be poetry which did not go upon ten feet, as George and his predecessors had taught it to do; so George read me some lectures on the distinguishing qualities of the Ode, the Epigram, and the Epic, and went home to illustrate his doctrine by correcting a proof sheet of his own Lyrics. George writes odes where the rhymes, like fashionable man and wife, keep a comfortable distance of six or eight lines apart, and calls that "observing the laws of verse." George tells you, before he recites, that you must listen with great attention, or you'll miss the rhymes. I did so, and found them pretty exact. George, speaking of the dead Ossian, exclaimeth, "Dark are the poet's eyes." I humbly represented to him that his own eyes were dark [? light], and many a living bard's besides, and recommended "Clos'd are the poet's eyes." But that would not do. I found there was an antithesis between the darkness of his eyes and the splendour of his genius; and I acquiesced. Your recipe for a Turk's poison is invaluable and truly Marlowish.... Lloyd objects to "shutting-up the womb of his purse" in my Curse (which for a Christian witch in a Christian country is not too mild, I hope); do you object? 1 think there is a strangeness in the idea, as well as "shaking the poor like snakes from his door," which suits the speaker. Witches illustrate, as fine ladies do, from their own familiar objects, and snakes and the shutting up of wombs are in their way. I don't know that this last charge has been before brought against 'em, nor either the sour milk or the mandrake babe; but I affirm these be things a witch would do if she could. My Tragedy will be a medley (as [? and] I intend it to be a medley) of laughter and tears, prose and verse, and in some places rhyme, songs, wit, pathos, humour, and, if possible, sublimity; at least, it is not a fault in my intention, if it does not comprehend most of these discordant colours. Heaven send they dance not the "Dance of Death!" I hear that the Two Noble Englishmen have parted no sooner than they set foot on German earth, but I have not heard the reason--possibly, to give novelists an handle to exclaim, "Ah me! what things are perfect?" I think I shall adopt your emendation in the "Dying Lover," though I do not myself feel the objection against "Silent Prayer." My tailor has brought me home a new coat lapelled, with a velvet collar. He assures me everybody wears velvet collars now. Some are born fashionable, some achieve fashion, and others, like your humble servant, have fashion thrust upon them. The rogue has been making inroads hitherto by modest degrees, foisting upon me an additional button, recommending gaiters; but to come upon me thus in a full tide of luxury, neither becomes him as a tailor nor the ninth of a man. My meek gentleman was robbed the other day, coming with his wife and family in a one-horse shay from Hampstead; the villains rifled him of four guineas, some shillings and half-pence, and a bundle of customers' measures, which they swore were bank-notes. They did not shoot him, and when they rode off he addrest them with profound gratitude, making a congee: "Gentlemen, I wish you good night, and we are very much obliged to you that you have not used us ill!" And this is the cuckoo that has had the audacity to foist upon me ten buttons on a side and a black velvet collar--A damn'd ninth of a scoundrel! When you write to Lloyd, he wishes his Jacobin correspondents to address him as _Mr_. C. L. Love and respects to Edith. I hope she is well. Yours sincerely, C. LAMB. [The poem "Mystery of God" was, when printed in the _Annual Anthology_ for 1799, entitled "Living without God in the World." Lamb never reprinted it. It is not clear to what sonnet Lamb refers, possibly that to his sister, printed on page 78, which he himself never reprinted. It was at that time intended to call Southey's collection _Gleanings_; Lamb refers to the _Gleanings_ of Samuel Jackson Pratt (1749-1814), a very busy maker of books, published in 1795-1799. His _Triumph of Benevolence_ was published in 1786. Southey's witch ballad was "The Old Woman of Berkeley." George Dyer's principal works in verse are contained in his _Poems_, 1802, and _Poetics_, 1812. He retained the epithet "dark" for Ossian's eyes. Southey's recipe for a Turk's poison I do not find. It may have existed only in a letter. A reference to the poem in Letter 39 will explain the remarks about witches' curses. The Two Noble Englishmen (a sarcastic reference drawn, I imagine from Palamon and Arcite) were Coleridge and Wordsworth, then in Germany. Nothing definite is known, but they seem quite amicably to have decided to take independent courses. "Lloyd's Jacobin correspondents." This is Lamb's only allusion to the attack which had been made by _The Anti-Jacobin_ upon himself, Lloyd and their friends, particularly Coleridge and Southey. In "The New Morality," in the last number of Canning's paper, they had been thus grouped:-- And ye five other wandering Bards that move In sweet accord of harmony and love, C-----dge and S--tb--y, L--d, and L--be & Co. Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux! --Lepaux being the high-priest of Theophilanthropy. When "The New Morality" was reprinted in _The Beauties of "The AntiJacobin_" in 1799, a savage footnote on Coleridge was appended, accusing him of hypocrisy and the desertion of his wife and children, and adding "_Ex uno disce_ his associates Southey and Lamb." Again, in the first number of the _Anti-Jacobin Review and Magazine_, August, 1798, was a picture by Gilray, representing the worshippers of Lepaux, wherein Lloyd and Lamb appeared as a toad and a frog reading their own _Blank Verse_, and Coleridge and Southey, as donkeys, flourish "Dactylics" and "Saphics." In September the federated poets were again touched upon in a parody of the "Ode to the Passions":-- See! faithful to their mighty dam, C----dge, S--th--y, L--d, and L--b In splay-foot madrigals of love, Soft moaning like the widow'd dove, Pour, side-by-side, their sympathetic notes; Of equal rights, and civic feasts, And tyrant kings, and knavish priests, Swift through the land the tuneful mischief floats. And now to softer strains they struck the lyre, They sung the beetle or the mole, The dying kid, or ass's foal, By cruel man permitted to expire. Lloyd took the caricature and the verses with his customary seriousness, going so far as to indite a "Letter to _The Anti-Jacobin_ Reviewers," which was printed in Birmingham in 1799. Therein he defended Lamb with some vigour: "The person you have thus leagued in a partnership of infamy with me is Mr. Charles Lamb, a man who, so far from being a democrat, would be the first person to assent to the opinions contained in the foregoing pages: he is a man too much occupied with real and painful duties--duties of high personal self-denial--to trouble himself about speculative matters."] LETTER 41 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Dec. 27, 1798. Dear Southey,--Your friend John May has formerly made kind offers to Lloyd of serving me in the India house by the interest of his friend Sir Francis Baring--It is not likely that I shall ever put his goodness to the test on my own account, for my prospects are very comfortable. But I know a man, a young man, whom he could serve thro' the same channel, and I think would be disposed to serve if he were acquainted with his case. This poor fellow (whom I know just enough of to vouch for his strict integrity & worth) has lost two or three employments from illness, which he cannot regain; he was once insane, & from the distressful uncertainty of his livelihood has reason to apprehend a return of that malady--He has been for some time dependant on a woman whose lodger he formerly was, but who can ill afford to maintain him, and I know that on Christmas night last he actually walk'd about the streets all night, rather than accept of her Bed, which she offer'd him, and offer'd herself to sleep in the kitchen, and that in consequence of that severe cold he is labouring under a bilious disorder, besides a depression of spirits, which incapacitates him from exertion when he most needs it--For God's sake, Southey, if it does not go against you to ask favors, do it now--ask it as for me--but do not do a violence to your feelings, because he does not know of this application, and will suffer no disappointment--What I meant to say was this--there are in the India house what are called _Extra Clerks_, not on the Establishment, like me, but employed in Extra business, by-jobs--these get about L50 a year, or rather more, but never rise--a Director can put in at any time a young man in this office, and it is by no means consider'd so great a favor as making an established Clerk. He would think himself as rich as an Emperor if he could get such a certain situation, and be relieved from those disquietudes which I do fear may one day bring back his distemper-- You know John May better than I do, but I know enough to believe that he is a good man--he did make me that offer I have mention'd, but you will perceive that such an offer cannot authorize me in applying for another Person. But I cannot help writing to you on the subject, for the young man is perpetually before my eyes, and I should feel it a crime not to strain all my petty interest to do him service, tho' I put my own delicacy to the question by so doing--I have made one other unsuccessful attempt already-- At all events I will thank you to write, for I am tormented with anxiety-- I suppose you have somewhere heard that poor Mary Dollin has poisoned herself, after some interviews with John Reid, the ci-devant Alphonso of her days of hope. How is Edith? C. LAMB. [John May was a friend and correspondent of Southey whom he had met at Lisbon: not to be confounded with Coleridge's inn-keeping May. Sir Francis Baring was a director of the East India Company. 1 have no knowledge as to who the young man was; nor have I any regarding Mary Dollin and John Reid.] LETTER 42 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Jan. 21st, 1799. I am requested by Lloyd to excuse his not replying to a kind letter received from you. He is at present situated in most distressful family perplexities, which I am not at liberty to explain; but they are such as to demand all the strength of his mind, and quite exclude any attention to foreign objects. His brother Robert (the flower of his family) hath eloped from the persecutions of his father, and has taken shelter with me. What the issue of his adventure will be, I know not. He hath the sweetness of an angel in his heart, combined with admirable firmness of purpose: an uncultivated, but very original, and, I think, superior genius. But this step of his is but a small part of their family troubles. I am to blame for not writing to you before on _my own account_; but I know you can dispense with the expressions of gratitude, or I should have thanked you before for all May's kindness. He has liberally supplied the person I spoke to you of with money, and had procured him a situation just after himself had lighted upon a similar one and engaged too far to recede. But May's kindness was the same, and my thanks to you and him are the same. May went about on this business as if it had been his own. But you knew John May before this: so I will be silent. I shall be very glad to hear from you when convenient. I do not know how your Calendar and other affairs thrive; but, above all, I have not heard a great while of your "Madoc"--the _opus magnum_. I would willingly send you something to give a value to this letter; but I have only one slight passage to send you, scarce worth the sending, which I want to edge in somewhere into my play, which, by the way, hath not received the addition of ten lines, besides, since I saw you. A father, old Walter Woodvil (the witch's PROTEGE) relates this of his son John, who "fought in adverse armies," being a royalist, and his father a parliamentary man:-- "I saw him in the day of Worcester fight, Whither he came at twice seven years, Under the discipline of the Lord Falkland (His uncle by the mother's side, Who gave his youthful politics a bent Quite _from_ the principles of his father's house;) There did I see this valiant Lamb of Mars, This sprig of honour, this unbearded John, This veteran in green years, this sprout, this Woodvil, (With dreadless ease guiding a fire-hot steed, Which seem'd to scorn the manage of a boy), Prick forth with such a _mirth_ into the field, To mingle rivalship and acts of war Even with the sinewy masters of the art,-- You would have thought the work of blood had been A play-game merely, and the rabid Mars Had put his harmful hostile nature off, To instruct raw youth in images of war, And practice of the unedged players' foils. The rough fanatic and blood-practised soldiery Seeing such hope and virtue in the boy, Disclosed their ranks to let him pass unhurt, Checking their swords' uncivil injuries, As loth to mar that curious workmanship Of Valour's beauty pourtray'd in his face." Lloyd objects to "pourtray'd in his face,"--do you? I like the line. I shall clap this in somewhere. I think there is a spirit through the lines; perhaps the 7th, 8th, and 9th owe their origin to Shakspeare, though no image is borrowed. He says in "Henry the Fourth"-- "This infant Hotspur, Mars in swathing clothes." [See Pt. I., III., 2, 111, 112.] But pray did Lord Falkland die before Worcester fight? In that case I must make bold to unclify some other nobleman. Kind love and respects to Edith. C. LAMB. [Charles Lloyd's perplexities turned probably once again on the question of his marriage. How long Robert Lloyd was with Lamb we do not know; nor of what nature were the "persecutions" to which he was subjected. According to the evidence at our disposal, Charles Lloyd, sen., was a good father. Southey's _Madoc_ was not published until 1805. The passage from the play was not printed in _John Woodvil_. This, together with "The Dying Lover" are to be found only in the discarded version, printed in the Notes to Vol. IV. of the present edition. Lord Falkland had been killed at Newbury eight years before Worcester fight. Lamb altered the names to Ashley and Naseby, although Sir Anthony Cooper was not made Lord Ashley until sixteen years after Naseby was fought.] LETTER 43 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY [Late January or early February, 1799.] Dr. Southey,--Lloyd will now be able to give you an account of himself, so to him I leave you for satisfaction. Great part of his troubles are lightened by the partial recovery of his sister, who had been alarmingly ill with similar diseases to his own. The other part of the family troubles sleeps for the present, but I fear will awake at some future time to _confound_ and _disunite_. He will probably tell you all about it. Robert still continues here with me, his father has proposed nothing, but would willingly lure him back with fair professions. But Robert is endowed with a wise fortitude, and in this business has acted quite from himself, and wisely acted. His parents must come forward in the End. I like reducing parents to a sense of undutifulness. I like confounding the relations of life. Pray let me see you when you come to town, and contrive to give me some of your company. I thank you heartily for your intended presents, but do by no means see the necessity you are under of burthening yourself thereby. You have read old Wither's Supersedeas to small purpose. You object to my pauses being at the end of my lines. I do not know any great difficulty I should find in diversifying or changing my blank verse; but I go upon the model of Shakspere in my Play, and endeavour after a colloquial ease and spirit, something like him. I could so easily imitate Milton's versification; but my ear & feeling would reject it, or any approaches to it, in the _drama_. I do not know whether to be glad or sorry that witches have been detected aforetimes in shutting up of wombs. I certainly invented that conceit, and its coincidence with fact is incidental [? accidental], for I never heard it. I have not seen those verses on Col. Despard--I do not read any newspapers. Are they short, to copy without much trouble? I should like to see them. I just send you a few rhymes from my play, the only rhymes in it--a forest-liver giving an account of his amusements:-- What sports have you in the forest? Not many,--some few,--as thus. To see the sun to bed, and see him rise, Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes, Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him: With all his fires and travelling glories round him: Sometimes the moon on soft night-clouds to rest, Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep: Sometimes outstretch'd in very idleness, Nought doing, saying little, thinking less, To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, Go eddying round; and small birds how they fare, When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn; And how the woods berries and worms provide, Without their pains, when earth hath nought beside To answer their small wants; To view the graceful deer come trooping by, Then pause, and gaze, then turn they know not why, Like bashful younkers in society; To mark the structure of a plant or tree; And all fair things of earth, how fair they be! &c. &c. I love to anticipate charges of unoriginality: the first line is almost Shakspere's:-- "To have my love to bed & to arise." _Midsummer Nights Dream_ [III., I, 174]. I think there is a sweetness in the versification not unlike some rhymes in that exquisite play, and the last line but three is yours: "An eye That met the gaze, or turn'd it knew not why." _Rosamund's Epistle_. I shall anticipate all my play, and have nothing to shew you. An idea for Leviathan:-- Commentators on Job have been puzzled to find out a meaning for Leviathan,--'tis a whale, say some; a crocodile, say others. In my simple conjecture, Leviathan is neither more nor less than the Lord Mayor of London for the time being. "Rosamund" sells well in London, maugre the non-reviewal of it. I sincerely wish you better health, & better health to Edith, Kind remembrances to her. C. LAMB. If you come to town by Ash Wednesday [February 6], you will certainly see Lloyd here--I expect him by that time. My sister Mary was never in better health or spirits than now. [Writing in June, 1799, to Robert Lloyd, Priscilla, his sister, says: "Lamb would not I think by any means be a person to take up your abode with. He is too much like yourself--he would encourage those feelings which it certainly is your duty to suppress. Your station in life--the duties which are pointed out by that rank in society which you are destined to fill--differ widely from his." When next we hear of Robert Lloyd he has returned to Birmingham, where his father soon afterwards bought him a partnership in a bookselling and printing business. "Col. Despard." I have not found the verses. Colonel Edward Marcus Despard, after a career that began brilliantly, was imprisoned in the spring of 1798 and executed for High Treason in 1803. The rhymed passage from _John Woodvil_ is that which is best known. Hazlitt relates that Godwin was so taken with it when he first read it that he asked every one he met to tell him the author and play, and at last applied to Lamb himself.] LETTER 44 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY March 15th, 1799. Dear Southey,--I have received your little volume, for which I thank you, though I do not entirely approve of this sort of intercourse, where the presents are all one side. I have read the last Eclogue again with great pleasure. It hath gained considerably by abridgment, and now I think it wants nothing but enlargement. You will call this one of tyrant Procrustes' criticisms, to cut and pull so to his own standard; but the old lady is so great a favourite with me, I want to hear more of her; and of "Joanna" you have given us still less. But the picture of the rustics leaning over the bridge, and the old lady travelling abroad on a summer evening to see her garden watered, are images so new and true, that I decidedly prefer this "Ruin'd Cottage" to any poem in the book. Indeed I think it the only one that will bear comparison with your "Hymn to the Penates" in a former volume. I compare dissimilar things, as one would a rose and a star for the pleasure they give us, or as a child soon learns to choose between a cake and a rattle; for dissimilars have mostly some points of comparison. The next best poem, I think, is the First Eclogue; 'tis very complete, and abounding in little pictures and realities. The remainder Eclogues, excepting only the "Funeral," I do not greatly admire. I miss _one_, which had at least as good a title to publication as the "Witch," or the "Sailor's Mother." You call'd it the "Last of the Family." The "Old Woman of Berkeley" comes next; in some humours I would give it the preference above any. But who the devil is Matthew of Westminster? You are as familiar with these antiquated monastics, as Swedenborg, or, as his followers affect to call him, the Baron, with his invisibles. But you have raised a very comic effect out of the true narrative of Matthew of Westminster. 'Tis surprising with how little addition you have been able to convert with so little alteration his incidents, meant for terror, into circumstances and food for the spleen. The Parody is _not_ so successful; it has one famous line indeed, which conveys the finest death-bed image I ever met with: "The doctor whisper'd the nurse, and the surgeon knew what he said." But the offering the bride three times bears not the slightest analogy or proportion to the fiendish noises three times heard! In "Jaspar," the circumstance of the great light is very affecting. But I had heard you mention it before. The "Rose" is the only insipid piece in the volume; it hath neither thorns nor sweetness, and, besides, sets all chronology and probability at defiance. "Cousin Margaret," you know, I like. The allusions to the "Pilgrim's Progress" are particularly happy, and harmonise tacitly and delicately with old cousins and aunts. To familiar faces we do associate familiar scenes and accustomed objects; but what hath Apollidon and his sea-nymphs to do in these affairs? Apollyon I could have borne, though he stands for the devil; but who is Apollidon? I think you are too apt to conclude faintly, with some cold moral, as in the end of the poem called "The Victory"-- "Be thou her comforter, who art the widow's friend;" a single common-place line of comfort, which bears no proportion in weight or number to the many lines which describe suffering. This is to convert religion into mediocre feelings, which should burn, and glow, and tremble. A moral should be wrought into the body and soul, the matter and tendency, of a poem, not tagged to the end, like a "God send the good ship into harbour," at the conclusion of our bills of lading. The finishing of the "Sailor" is also imperfect. Any dissenting minister may say and do as much. These remarks, I know, are crude and unwrought; but I do not lay claim to much accurate thinking. I never judge system-wise of things, but fasten upon particulars. After all, there is a great deal in the book that I must, for time, leave _unmentioned_, to deserve my thanks for its own sake, as well as for the friendly remembrances implied in the gift. I again return you my thanks. Pray present my love to Edith. C. L. [Southey's little volume was Vol. II. of the second edition of his _Poems_, published in 1799. The last of the English Eclogues included in it was "The Ruined Cottage," slightly altered from the version referred to in letter 38. The "Hymn to the Penates" brought the first volume of this edition to a close. The first Eclogue was "The Old Mansion House." "The Old Woman of Berkeley" was called "A Ballad showing how an Old Woman rode double and who rode before her." It was preceded by a long quotation in Latin from Matthew of Westminster. Matthew of Westminster is the imaginary name given to the unknown authors of a chronicle called _Flares Historiarum_, belonging probably to the fifteenth century. The Parody was "The Surgeon's Warning," which begins with the two lines that Lamb prints as one:-- The Doctor whisper'd to the Nurse, And the Surgeon knew what he said. "The Rose" was blank verse, addressed to Edith Southey. "Cousin Margaret" was a "Metrical Letter Written from London," in which there are allusions to Bunyan. The reference to Apollidon is explained by these lines:-- The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle, Like that where whilome old Apollidon Built up his blameless spell.] LETTER 45 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY March 2Oth, 1799. I am hugely pleased with your "Spider," "your old freemason," as you call him. The three first stanzas are delicious; they seem to me a compound of Burns and Old Quarles, those kind of home-strokes, where more is felt than strikes the ear; a terseness, a jocular pathos, which makes one feel in laughter. The measure, too, is novel and pleasing. I could almost wonder Rob. Burns in his lifetime never stumbled upon it. The fourth stanza is less striking, as being less original. The fifth falls off. It has no felicity of phrase, no old-fashioned phrase or feeling. "Young hopes, and love's delightful dreams," savour neither of Burns nor Quarles; they seem more like shreds of many a modern sentimental sonnet. The last stanza hath nothing striking in it, if I except the two concluding lines, which are Burns all over. I wish, if you concur with me, these things could be looked to. I am sure this is a kind of writing, which comes tenfold better recommended to the heart, comes there more like a neighbour or familiar, than thousands of Hamuels and Zillahs and Madelons. I beg you will send me the "Holly-tree," if it at all resemble this, for it must please me. I have never seen it. I love this sort of poems, that open a new intercourse with the most despised of the animal and insect race. I think this vein may be further opened; Peter Pindar hath very prettily apostrophised a fly; Burns hath his mouse and his louse; Coleridge, less successfully, hath made overtures of intimacy to a jackass, therein only following at unresembling distance Sterne and greater Cervantes. Besides these, I know of no other examples of breaking down the partition between us and our "poor earth-born companions." It is sometimes revolting to be put in a track of feeling by other people, not one's own immediate thoughts, else I would persuade you, if I could (I am in earnest), to commence a series of these animal poems, which might have a tendency to rescue some poor creatures from the antipathy of mankind. Some thoughts come across me;--for instance--to a rat, to a toad, to a cockchafer, to a mole--People bake moles alive by a slow oven-fire to cure consumption. Rats are, indeed, the most despised and contemptible parts of God's earth. I killed a rat the other day by punching him to pieces, and feel a weight of blood upon me to this hour. Toads you know are made to fly, and tumble down and crush all to pieces. Cockchafers are old sport; then again to a worm, with an apostrophe to anglers, those patient tyrants, meek inflictors of pangs intolerable, cool devils; to an owl; to all snakes, with an apology for their poison; to a cat in boots or bladders. Your own fancy, if it takes a fancy to these hints, will suggest many more. A series of such poems, suppose them accompanied with plates descriptive of animal torments, cooks roasting lobsters, fishmongers crimping skates, &c., &c., would take excessively. I will willingly enter into a partnership in the plan with you: I think my heart and soul would go with it too--at least, give it a thought. My plan is but this minute come into my head; but it strikes me instantaneously as something new, good and useful, full of pleasure and full of moral. If old Quarles and Wither could live again, we would invite them into our firm. Burns hath done his part. I the other day threw off an extempore epitaph on Ensign Peacock of the 3rd Regt. of the Royal East India Volunteers, who like other boys in this scarlet tainted age was ambitious of playing at soldiers, but dying in the first flash of his valour was at the particular instance of his relations buried with military honours! like any veteran scarr'd or chopt from Blenheim or Ramilies. (He was buried in sash and gorget.) MARMOR LOQUITUR He lies a Volunteer so fine, Who died of a decline, As you or I, may do one day; Reader, think of this, I pray; And I numbly hope you'll drop a tear For my poor Royal Volunteer. He was as brave as brave could be, Nobody was so brave as he; He would have died in Honor's bed, Only he died at home instead. Well may the Royal Regiment swear, They never had such a Volunteer. But whatsoever they may say, Death is a man that will have his way: Tho' he was but an ensign in this world of pain; In the next we hope he'll be a captain. And without meaning to make any reflection on his mentals, He begg'd to be buried in regimentals. Sed hae sunt lamentabilis nugae--But 'tis as good as some epitaphs you and I have read together in Christ-Church-yard. Poor Sam. Le Grice! I am afraid the world, and the camp, and the university, have spoilt him among them. 'Tis certain he had at one time a strong capacity of turning out something better. I knew him, and that not long since, when he had a most warm heart. I am ashamed of the indifference I have sometimes felt towards him. I think the devil is in one's heart. I am under obligations to that man for the warmest friendship and heartiest sympathy, even for an agony of sympathy exprest both by word and deed, and tears for me, when I was in my greatest distress. But I have forgot that! as, I fear, he has nigh forgot the awful scenes which were before his eyes when he served the office of a comforter to me. No service was too mean or troublesome for him to perform. I can't think what but the devil, "that old spider," could have suck'd my heart so dry of its sense of all gratitude. If he does come in your way, Southey, fail not to tell him that I retain a most affectionate remembrance of his old friendliness, and an earnest wish to resume our intercourse. In this I am serious. I cannot recommend him to your society, because I am afraid whether he be quite worthy of it. But I have no right to dismiss him from _my_ regard. He was at one time, and in the worst of times, my own familiar friend, and great comfort to me then. I have known him to play at cards with my father, meal-times excepted, literally all day long, in long days too, to save me from being teased by the old man, when I was not able to bear it. God bless him for it, and God bless you, Southey. C. L. [Peter Pindar (Dr. John Wolcot) has an ode "To a Fly, taken out of a Bowl of Punch." He also wrote "The Lousiad." "Poor earth-born companions." From Burns' "Lines to a Mouse," 2nd Stanza, line 5. "Toads are made to fly." Filliping the toad was an old pastime. A toad was placed on one end of a piece of wood, laid crosswise over a stone. The other end was struck with a beetle (_i.e._, a mallet), and the toad flew into the air. Falstaff says: "Fillip me with a three-man beetle." As to worms and fishermen, the late Mrs. Coe, who as a girl had known Lamb at Widford, told me that he could rarely, if ever, be tempted to join the anglers. Affixing the worm was too much for him. "Barbarous, barbarous," he used to say. Lamb's project for a series of animal poems has to some extent been carried out by a living poet, Mr. A. C. Benson. Neither Lamb nor Southey pursued it. We met Sam Le Grice in the letter of October 3, 1796. To what escapade Lamb refers I do not know, but he was addicted to folly. It was Sam Le Grice of whom Leigh Hunt in his _Autobiography_ tells the excellent tale that he excused himself to his master for not having performed a task, by the remark that he had had a "lethargy." In April of this year died John Lamb, the father. Charles Lamb probably at once moved from 45 Chapel Street to No. 36, where Mary Lamb joined him. Between this and the next letter should probably come a letter from Lamb to Robert Lloyd, not available for this edition. It seems to follow upon Robert Lloyd's departure from Lamb's house, and remarks that Lamb knows but one being that he could ever consent to live perpetually with, and that is Robert--but Robert must go whither prudence and paternal regulations dictate. Lamb also refers to a poem of an intimate character by Charles Lloyd in the _Annual Anthology_ ("Lines to a Brother and Sister"), remarking that, in his opinion, these domestic addresses should not always be made public. There is also a reference to Charles Lloyd's novel, which Lamb says he wants to read if he may be permitted a sight of it. This would be _Isabel_.] LETTER 46 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Oct. 31st, 1799. Dear Southey,--I have but just got your letter, being returned from Herts, where I have passed a few red-letter days with much pleasure. I would describe the county to you, as you have done by Devonshire, but alas! I am a poor pen at that same. I could tell you of an old house with a tapestry bed-room, the "judgment of Solomon" composing one pannel, and "Actaeon spying Diana naked" the other. I could tell of an old marble hall, with Hogarth's prints and the Roman Caesars in marble hung round. I could tell of a _wilderness_, and of a village church, and where the bones of my honoured grandam lie; but there are feelings which refuse to be translated, sulky aborigines, which will not be naturalised in another soil. Of this nature are old family faces and scenes of infancy. I have given your address, and the books you want, to the Arches; they will send them as soon as they can get them, but they do not seem quite familiar to [? with] their names. I have seen Gebor! Gebor aptly so denominated from Geborish, _quasi_ Gibberish. But Gebor hath some lucid intervals. I remember darkly one beautiful simile veiled in uncouth phrases about the youngest daughter of the Ark. I shall have nothing to communicate, I fear, to the Anthology. You shall have some fragments of my play, if you desire them, but I think I would rather print it whole. Have you seen it, or shall I lend you a copy? I want your opinion of it. I must get to business, so farewell. My kind remembrances to Edith. C. LAMB. [Lamb had probably been staying at Widford. Many years later he described his Hertfordshire days in more than one essay (see the _Elia_ essays "Mackery End" and "Blakesmoor in H-----shire" and "Dream-Children"). The old house was, of course, Blakesware. The wilderness, which lay at the back of the house, is, with Widford, mentioned in _Rosamund Gray_. The Arches were the brothers Arch, the booksellers of Ludgate Hill. Gebor stands for _Gebir_, Landor's poem, published in 1798. The simile in question would be this: from Book VII., lines 248-251:-- Never so eager, when the world was waves, Stood the less daughter of the ark, and tried (Innocent this temptation) to recall With folded vest and casting arm the dove. The reference to Southey's Anthology is to Vol. II., then in preparation. The play was now finished: it circulated in manuscript before being published in 1802. In a letter to Robert Lloyd, dated December 17, 1799, Lamb thanks him for a present of porter, adding that wine makes him hot, and brandy drunk, but porter warms without intoxication. Here should come an unpublished letter from Lamb to Charles Lloyd at Cambridge, asking for the return of his play. Kemble, he says, had offered to put it in the hands of the proprietor of Drury Lane, and therefore Lamb wishes to have a second copy in the house. Kemble, as it turned out, returned no answer for a year, and then he stated that he had lost the copy. Lamb mentions Coleridge's settlement with his family in lodgings in the Adelphi. Coleridge, having returned from Germany and undertaken work for the _Morning Post_, took lodgings at 21 Buckingham Street, Strand, close to the Adelphi, in November, 1799. The letter is interesting in containing the first mention of Manning, whom we are now to meet.] LETTER 47 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING Dec., 1799. Dear Manning,--The particular kindness, even up to a degree of attachment, which I have experienced from you, seems to claim some distinct acknowledgment on my part. I could not content myself with a bare remembrance to you, conveyed in some letter to Lloyd. Will it be agreeable to you, if I occasionally recruit your memory of me, which must else soon fade, if you consider the brief intercourse we have had. I am not likely to prove a troublesome correspondent. My scribbling days are past. I shall have no sentiments to communicate, but as they spring up from some living and worthy occasion. I look forward with great pleasure to the performance of your promise, that we should meet in London early in the ensuing year. The century must needs commence auspiciously for me, that brings with it Manning's friendship as an earnest of its after gifts. I should have written before, but for a troublesome inflammation in one of my eyes, brought on by night travelling with the coach windows sometimes up. What more I have to say shall be reserved for a letter to Lloyd. I must not prove tedious to you in my first outset, lest I should affright you by my ill-judged loquacity. I am, yours most sincerely, C. LAMB. [This is the first letter that has been preserved in the correspondence between Lamb and Manning. Lamb first met Manning at Cambridge, in the autumn of 1799, when on a visit to Charles Lloyd. Much of Manning's history will be unfolded as the letters proceed, but here it should be stated that he was born on November 8, 1772, and was thus a little more than two years older than Lamb. He was at this time acting as private tutor in mathematics at Cambridge, among his pupils being Charles Lloyd, of Caius, Manning's own college. Manning, however, did not take his degree, owing to an objection to oaths and tests. Lamb's reference to the beginning of the century shows that he shared with many other non-mathematically-minded persons the belief that the century begins with the hundredth, and not the hundred and first, year. He says of Manning, in the _Elia_ essay "The Old and the New Schoolmaster": "My friend M., with great painstaking, got me to think I understood the first proposition in Euclid, but gave me over in despair at the second."] LETTER 48 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING Dec. 28th, 1799. Dear Manning,--Having suspended my correspondence a decent interval, as knowing that even good things may be taken to satiety, a wish cannot but recur to learn whether you be still well and happy. Do all things continue in the state I left them in Cambridge? Do your night parties still flourish? and do you continue to bewilder your company with your thousand faces running down through all the keys of idiotism (like Lloyd over his perpetual harpsicord), from the smile and the glimmer of half-sense and quarter-sense to the grin and hanging lip of Betty Foy's own Johnny? And does the face-dissolving curfew sound at twelve? How unlike the great originals were your petty terrors in the postscript, not fearful enough to make a fairy shudder, or a Lilliputian fine lady, eight months full of child, miscarry. Yet one of them, which had more beast than the rest, I thought faintly resembled _one_ of your brutifications. But, seriously, I long to see your own honest Manning-face again. I did not mean a pun,--your _man's_ face, you will be apt to say, I know your wicked will to pun. I cannot now write to Lloyd and you too, so you must convey as much interesting intelligence as this may contain, or be thought to contain, to him and Sophia, with my dearest love and remembrances. By the by, I think you and Sophia both incorrect with regard to the _title_ of the _play_. Allowing your objection (which is not necessary, as pride may be, and is in real life often, cured by misfortunes not directly originating from its own acts, as Jeremy Taylor will tell you a naughty desire is sometimes sent to cure it--I know you read these _practical divines_). But allowing your objection, does not the betraying of his father's secret directly spring from pride?--from the pride of wine and a full heart, and a proud over-stepping of the ordinary rules of morality, and contempt of the prejudices of mankind, which are not to bind superior souls--"as _trust_ in _the matter_ of _secret_ all _ties_ of _blood_, &c., &c., keeping of _promises_, the feeble mind's religion, binding our _morning knowledge_ to the performance of what _last night's ignorance_ spake"--does he not prate, that "_Great Spirits_" must do more than die for their friend--does not the pride of wine incite him to display some evidence of friendship, which its own irregularity shall make great? This I know, that I meant his punishment not alone to be a cure for his daily and habitual _pride_, but the direct consequence and appropriate punishment of a particular act of pride. If you do not understand it so, it is my fault in not explaining my meaning. I have not seen Coleridge since, and scarcely expect to see him,--perhaps he has been at Cambridge. I dined with him in town and breakfasted with him and Priscilla, who you may tell Charles has promised to come and see me when she returns [to] Clapham. I will write to Charles on Monday. Need I turn over to blot a fresh clean half-sheet? merely to say, what I hope you are sure of without my repeating it, that I would have you consider me, dear Manning, Your sincere friend, C. LAMB. What is your proper address? ["Betty Foy's own Johnny"--"The Idiot Boy," in the _Lyrical Ballads_. "In the postscript." A reference presumably to some drawings of faces in one of Manning's letters. "The title of the play." Writing to Lamb on December 15, 1799, Manning had said: "I had some conversation the other day with Sophia concerning your tragedy; and she made some very sensible observations (as I thought) with respect to the unfitness of its title, 'The Folly,' whose consequences humble the pride and ambition of John's heart, does not originate in the workings of those passions, but from an underpart in his character, and as it were accidentally, _viz_., from the ebullitions of a drunken mind and from a rash confidence." "You will understand what I mean, without my explaining myself any further. God bless you, and keep you from all evil things, that walk upon the face of the earth--I mean nightmares, hobgoblins and spectres." Lamb refers in this letter particularly to Act III. of his play. "I have not seen Coleridge since." Since when is not clear. Possibly Coleridge had been at Cambridge when Lamb was there.] LETTER 49 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE ? Jan. 23, 1800. Dear Coleridge,--Now I write, I cannot miss this opportunity of acknowledging the obligations myself, and the readers in general of that luminous paper, the "Morning Post," are under to you for the very novel and exquisite manner in which you combined political with grammatical science, in your yesterday's dissertation on Mr. Wyndham's unhappy composition. It must have been the death-blow to that ministry. I expect Pitt and Grenville to resign. More especially the delicate and Cottrellian grace with which you officiated, with a ferula for a white wand, as gentleman usher to the word "also," which it seems did not know its place. I expect Manning of Cambridge in town to-night--will you fulfil your promise of meeting him at my house? He is a man of a thousand. Give me a line to say what day, whether Saturday, Sunday, Monday, &c., and if Sara and the Philosopher can come. I am afraid if I did not at intervals call upon you, I should _never see you_. But I forget, the affairs of the nation engross your time and your mind. Farewell. C.L. [The first letter that has been preserved of the second period of Lamb's correspondence with Coleridge, which was to last until the end. In the _Morning Post_ of January 7, 1800, had appeared the correspondence between Buonaparte and Lord Grenville, in which Buonaparte made an offer of peace. Lord Grenville's Note, it was pointed out in the _Morning Post_ for January 16, was really written by William Windham, Secretary for War, and on January 22 appeared an article closely criticising its grammar. Here is the passage concerning "also," to which Lamb particularly alludes a little later in the letter:-- ... "The _same_ system, to the prevalence of which France justly ascribes all her present miseries, is that which has _also_ involved the rest of Europe in a long and destructive warfare, of a nature long since unknown _to_ the practice of civilized nations." Here the connective word "also" should have followed the word "Europe." As it at present stands, the sentence implies that France, miserable as she may be, has, however, not been involved in a warfare. The word "same" is absolutely expletive; and by appearing to refer the reader to some foregoing clause, it not only loads the sentence, but renders it obscure. The word "to" is absurdly used for the word "in." A thing may be unknown _to_ practitioners, as humanity and sincerity may be unknown to the practitioners of State-craft, and foresight, science, and harmony may have been unknown to the planners and practitioners of Continental Expeditions; but even "cheese-parings and candle-ends" cannot be known or unknown "_to_" a practice!! Windham was destined to be attacked by another stalwart in Lamb's circle, for it was his speech in opposition to Lord Erskine's Cruelty to Animals Bill in 1809 that inspired John Lamb to write his fierce pamphlet (see page 434). "Cottrellian grace." The Cotterells were Masters of the Ceremonies from 1641 to 1808. The Philosopher was Hartley Coleridge, aged three, so called after his great namesake, David Hartley. The Coleridges were now, as we have seen, living at 21 Buckingham Street, Strand.] LETTER 50 Charles Lamb to Thomas Manning [P.M. Feb. 13, 1800.] Dear Manning,--Olivia is a good girl, and if you turn to my letter, you will find that this very plea you set up to vindicate Lloyd I had made use of as a reason why he should never have employed Olivia to make a copy of such a letter--a letter I could not have sent to my enemy's b----h, if she had thought fit to seek me in the way of marriage. But you see it in one view, I in another. Rest you merry in your opinion! Opinion is a species of property; and though I am always desirous to share with my friend to a certain extent, I shall ever like to keep some tenets and some property properly my own. Some day, Manning, when we meet, substituting Corydon and fair Amaryllis, for Charles Lloyd and Mary Hayes, we will discuss together this question of moral feeling, "In what cases and how far sincerity is a virtue?" I do not mean Truth--a good Olivia-like creature--God bless her, who, meaning no offence, is always ready to give an answer when she is asked why she did so and so; but a certain forward-talking half-brother of hers, Sincerity, that amphibious gentleman, who is so ready to perk up his obnoxious sentiments unasked into your notice, as Midas would his ears into your face uncalled for. But I despair of doing anything by a letter in the way of explaining or coming to explanations. A good wish, or a pun, or a piece of secret history, may be well enough that way conveyed; nay, it has been known that intelligence of a turkey hath been conveyed by that medium without much ambiguity. Godwin I am a good deal pleased with. He is a very well-behaved, decent man, nothing very brilliant about him, or imposing, as you may suppose; quite another guess sort of gentleman from what your Anti-Jacobin Christians imagine him. I was well pleased to find he has neither horns nor claws; quite a tame creature, I assure you. A middle-sized man, both in stature and in understanding; whereas, from his noisy fame, you would expect to find a Briareus Centimanus, or a Tityus tall enough to pull Jupiter from his heavens. I begin to think you Atheists not quite so tall a species. Coleridge inquires after you pretty often. I wish to be the Pandar to bring you together again once before I die. When we die, you and I must part; the sheep, you know, take the right hand, and the goats the left. Stripped of its allegory, you must know, the sheep are _I_ and the Apostles, and the Martyrs, and the Popes, and Bishop Taylor, and Bishop Horsley, and Coleridge, &c., &c.; the goats are the Atheists and the Adulterers, and dumb dogs, and Godwin and M-----g, and that Thyestaean crew--yaw! how my saintship sickens at the idea! You shall have my play and the Falstaff letters in a day or two. I will write to Lloyd by this day's post. Pray, is it a part of your sincerity to show my letters to Lloyd? for really, gentlemen ought to explain their virtues upon a first acquaintance, to prevent mistakes. God bless you, Manning. Take my trifling _as trifling_; and believe me, seriously and deeply, Your well-wisher and friend, C. L. [Mary Hayes was a friend of Mary Wollstonecraft, and also of Southey and Coleridge. She wrote a novel, _Memoirs of Emma Courtney_, which Lloyd says contained her own love letters to Godwin and Frend, and also _Female Biography, or Memoirs of Illustrious and Celebrated Women_. Lloyd and she had been very intimate. A passage from a letter of Coleridge to Southey, dated January 25, 1800, bears upon the present situation: "Miss Hayes I have seen. Charles Lloyd's conduct has been atrocious beyond what you stated. Lamb himself confessed to me that during the time in which he kept up his ranting, sentimental correspondence with Miss Hayes, he frequently read her letters in company, as a subject for _laughter_, and then sate down and answered them quite _a la Rousseau_! Poor Lloyd! Every hour new-creates him; he is his own posterity in a perpetually flowing series, and his body unfortunately retaining an external identity, _their_ mutual contradictions and disagreeings are united under one name, and of course are called lies, treachery, and rascality!" Another letter from Lamb to Manning at this time tells the story of the Charles Lloyd and Mary Hayes imbroglio. Lloyd had written to Miss Hayes a very odd letter concerning her Godwinite creed, in which he refers to her belief that she was in love with him and repeats old stories that she had been in love both with Godwin and Frend. Here is one sentence: "In the confounding medley of ordinary conversation, I have interwoven my abhorrence of your principles with a glanced contempt for your personal character." This letter Lloyd had given to his sister Olivia to copy--"An ignorant Quaker girl," says Lamb, "I mean ignorant in the best sense, who ought not to know, that such a thing was possible or in rerum naturae that a woman should court a man." Later: "As long as Lloyd or I have known Col. [Coleridge] so long have we known him in the daily and hourly habit of quizzing the world by lyes, most unaccountable and most disinterested fictions." And here is one more passage: "To sum up my inferences from the above facts, I am determined to live a merry Life in the midst of Sinners. I try to consider all men as such, and to pitch any expectations from human nature as low as possible. In this view, all unexpected Virtues are Godsends and beautiful exceptions." Lamb had just met William Godwin (1756-1836), probably having been introduced to him by Coleridge. Godwin, known chiefly by his _Political Justice_, 1793; _Caleb Williams_, 1794, and _St. Leon_, 1799, stood at that time for everything that was advanced in thought and conduct. We shall meet with him often in the correspondence of the next few years. Bishop Horsley (then of Rochester, afterwards St. Asaph's) was probably included ironically, on account of his hostility to Priestley.] LETTER 51 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. March 1, 1800.] I hope by this time you are prepared to say the "Falstaf's letters" are a bundle of the sharpest, queerest, profoundest humours, of any these juice-drained latter times have spawned. I should have advertised you, that the meaning is frequently hard to be got at; and so are the future guineas, that now lie ripening and aurifying in the womb of some undiscovered Potosi; but dig, dig, dig, dig, Manning! I set to with an unconquerable propulsion to write, with a lamentable want of what to write. My private goings on are orderly as the movements of the spheres, and stale as their music to angels' ears. Public affairs--except as they touch upon me, and so turn into private, I cannot whip up my mind to feel any interest in. I grieve, indeed, that War and Nature, and Mr. Pitt, that hangs up in Lloyd's best parlour, should have conspired to call up three necessaries, simple commoners as our fathers knew them, into the upper house of Luxuries; Bread, and Beer, and Coals, Manning. But as to France and Frenchmen, and the Abbe Sieyes and his constitutions, I cannot make these present times present to me. I read histories of the past, and I live in them; although, to abstract senses, they are far less momentous than the noises which keep Europe awake. I am reading Burnet's Own Times. Did you ever read that garrulous, pleasant history? He tells his story like an old man past political service, bragging to his sons on winter evenings of the part he took in public transactions, when his "old cap was new." Full of scandal, which all true history is. No palliatives, but all the stark wickedness, that actually gives the _momentum_ to national actors. Quite the prattle of age and out-lived importance. Truth and sincerity staring out upon you perpetually in _alto relievo_. Himself a party man--he makes you a party man. None of the Damned philosophical Humeian indifference, so cold, and unnatural, and inhuman! None of the damned Gibbonian fine writing, so fine and composite. None of Mr. Robertson's periods with three members. None of Mr. Roscoe's sage remarks, all so apposite, and coming in so clever, lest the reader should have had the trouble of drawing an inference. Burnet's good old prattle I can bring present to my mind--I can make the revolution present to me; the French Revolution, by a converse perversity in my nature, I fling as far _from_ me. To quit this damn'd subject, and to relieve you from two or three dismal yawns, which I hear in spirit, I here conclude my more than commonly obtuse letter; dull up to the dulness of a Dutch commentator on Shakspeare. My love to Lloyd and Sophia. C. L. ["War and Nature, and Mr. Pitt." The war had sent up taxation to an almost unbearable height. Pitt was Chancellor of Exchequer, as well as Prime Minister. Hume, Gibbon and Robertson were among the books which, in the Elia essay "Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading," Lamb described as _biblia-a-biblia_. William Roscoe's principal work was his _Life of Lorenzo de' Medici_, 1795.] LETTER 52 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. March 17, 1800.] Dear Manning,--I am living in a continuous feast. Coleridge has been with me now for nigh three weeks, and the more I see of him in the quotidian undress and relaxation of his mind, the more cause I see to love him, and believe him a _very good man_, and all those foolish impressions to the contrary fly off like morning slumbers. He is engaged in translations, which I hope will keep him this month to come. He is uncommonly kind and friendly to me. He ferrets me day and night to _do something_. He tends me, amidst all his own worrying and heart-oppressing occupations, as a gardener tends his young _tulip_. Marry come up! what a pretty similitude, and how like your humble servant! He has lugged me to the brink of engaging to a newspaper, and has suggested to me for a first plan the forgery of a supposed manuscript of Burton the anatomist of melancholy. I have even written the introductory letter; and, if I can pick up a few guineas this way, I feel they will be most _refreshing_, bread being so dear. If I go on with it, I will apprise you of it, as you may like to see my thing's! and the _tulip_, of all flowers, loves to be admired most. Pray pardon me, if my letters do not come very thick. I am so taken up with one thing or other, that I cannot pick out (I will not say time, but) fitting times to write to you. My dear love to Lloyd and Sophia, and pray split this thin letter into three parts, and present them with the _two biggest_ in my name. They are my oldest friends; but ever the new friend driveth out the old, as the ballad sings! God bless you all three! I would hear from Lloyd, if I could. C. L. Flour has just fallen nine shillings a sack! we shall be all too rich. Tell Charles I have seen his Mamma, and have almost fallen in love with _her_, since I mayn't with Olivia. She is so fine and graceful, a complete Matron-Lady-Quaker. She has given me two little books. Olivia grows a charming girl--full of feeling, and thinner than she was. But I have not time to fall in love. Mary presents her _general compliments_. She keeps in fine health! Huzza! boys, and down with the Atheists. [Coleridge, having sent his wife and Hartley into the country, had, for a while, taken up his abode with Lamb at Pentonville, and given up the _Morning Post_ in order to proceed with his translation of Schiller's _Wallenstein_. Lamb's forgery of Burton, together with those mentioned in the next letter, which were never printed by Stuart, for whom they were written, was included in the _John Woodvil_ volume, 1802, among the "Curious Fragments, extracted from a commonplace book, which belonged to Robert Burton, the famous Author of The Anatomy of Melancholy." See the _Miscellaneous Prose_, Vol. I. of this edition. "They are my oldest friends." Coleridge and Southey were, of course, older. The ballad I have not found. Mrs. Charles Lloyd, sen., _nee_ Mary Farmer, and Olivia, her second daughter, had been staying in London. Lamb had breakfasted with them. The reference to Atheists is explained by a passage from Manning's letter to Lamb in March, 1800: "One thing tho' I must beg of you--that is not to call me Atheist in your letters--for though it may be mere raillery in you, and not meant as a serious imputation on my Faith, yet, if the Catholic or any other intolerant religion should [illegible] and become established in England, (which [illegible] if the Bishop of R----r may be the case) and if the post-people should happen to open and read your letters, (which, considering the sometimes quaintness of their form, they may possibly be incited to do) such names might send me to Smithfield on a hurdle,--and nothing _upon earth_ is more discordant to my wishes, than to become one of the Smithfield Illuminati."] LETTER 53 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. April 5, 1800.] C.L.'s moral sense presents her compliments to Doctor Manning, is very thankful for his medical advice, but is happy to add that her disorder has died of itself. Dr. Manning, Coleridge has left us, to go into the north, on a visit to his god Wordsworth. With him have flown all my splendid prospects of engagement with the "Morning Post," all my visionary guineas, the deceitful wages of unborn scandal. In truth, I wonder you took it up so seriously. All my intention was but to make a little sport with such public and fair game as Mr. Pitt, Mr. Wilberforce, Mrs. Fitzherbert, the Devil, &c.--gentry dipped in Styx all over, whom no paper javelin-lings can touch. To have made free with these cattle, where was the harm? 'twould have been but giving a polish to lampblack, not nigrifying a negro primarily. After all, I cannot but regret my involuntary virtue. Damn virtue that's thrust upon us; it behaves itself with such constraint, till conscience opens the window and lets out the goose. I had struck off two imitations of Burton, quite abstracted from any modern allusions, which it was my intent only to lug in from time to time to make 'em popular. Stuart has got these, with an introductory letter; but, not hearing from him, I have ceased from my labours, but I write to him today to get a final answer. I am afraid they won't do for a paper. Burton is a scarce gentleman, not much known; else I had done 'em pretty well. I have also hit off a few lines in the name of Burton, being a conceit of "Diabolic Possession." Burton was a man often assailed by deepest melancholy, and at other times much given to laughing and jesting, as is the way with melancholy men. I will send them you: they were almost extempore, and no great things; but you will indulge them. Robert Lloyd is come to town. He is a good fellow, with the best heart, but his feelings are shockingly _un_sane. Priscilla meditates going to see Pizarro at Drury Lane to-night (from her uncle's) under cover of coming to dine with me... _heu! tempora! heu! mores!_--I have barely time to finish, as I expect her and Robin every minute.--Yours as usual. C. L. [For Coleridge's movements see note to the next letter.--"Pizarro" was Sheridan's drama. It was acted this season, 1799-1800, sixty-seven times. Lamb's next letter to Manning, which is not available for this edition, contained the promised copy of the "Conceit of Diabolical Possession." It also contained a copy of Thekla's song in "Wallenstein," in Lamb's translation (see Vol. IV.), which he says is better than the original "a huge deal". Finally Lamb copies the old ballad "Edward, Edward" and calls it "the very first dramatic poem in the English language."] LETTER 54 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE [Probably April 16 or 17, 1800.] I send you, in this parcel, my play, which I beg you to present in my name, with my respect and love, to Wordsworth and his sister. You blame us for giving your direction to Miss Wesley; the woman has been ten times after us about it, and we gave it her at last, under the idea that no further harm would ensue, but she would once write to you, and you would bite your lips and forget to answer it, and so it would end. You read us a dismal homily upon "Realities." We know, quite as well as you do, what are shadows and what are realities. You, for instance, when you are over your fourth or fifth jorum, chirping about old school occurrences, are the best of realities. Shadows are cold, thin things, that have no warmth or grasp in them. Miss Wesley and her friend, and a tribe of authoresses that come after you here daily, and, in defect of you, hive and cluster upon us, are the shadows. You encouraged that mopsey, Miss Wesley, to dance after you, in the hope of having her nonsense put into a nonsensical Anthology. We have pretty well shaken her off, by that simple expedient of referring her to you; but there are more burrs in the wind. I came home t'other day from business, hungry as a hunter, to dinner, with nothing, I am sure, of _the author but hunger_ about me, and whom found I closeted with Mary but a friend of this Miss Wesley, one Miss Benje, or Benjey--I don't know how she spells her name. I just came in time enough, I believe, luckily to prevent them from exchanging vows of eternal friendship. It seems she is one of your authoresses, that you first foster, and then upbraid us with. But I forgive you. "The rogue has given me potions to make me love him." Well; go she would not, nor step a step over our threshold, till we had promised to come and drink tea with her next night. I had never seen her before, and could not tell who the devil it was that was so familiar. We went, however, not to be impolite. Her lodgings are up two pairs of stairs in East Street. Tea and coffee, and macaroons--a kind of cake I much love. We sat down. Presently Miss Benje broke the silence, by declaring herself quite of a different opinion from D'Israeli, who supposes the differences of human intellect to be the mere effect of organization. She begged to know my opinion. I attempted to carry it off with a pun upon organ; but that went off very flat. She immediately conceived a very low opinion of my metaphysics; and, turning round to Mary, put some question to her in French,--possibly having heard that neither Mary nor I understood French. The explanation that took place occasioned some embarrassment and much wondering. She then fell into an insulting conversation about the comparative genius and merits of all modern languages, and concluded with asserting that the Saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in Germany. From thence she passed into the subject of poetry; where I, who had hitherto sat mute and a hearer only, humbly hoped I might now put in a word to some advantage, seeing that it was my own trade in a manner. But I was stopped by a round assertion, that no good poetry had appeared since Dr. Johnson's time. It seems the Doctor has suppressed many hopeful geniuses that way by the severity of his critical strictures in his "Lives of the Poets." I here ventured to question the fact, and was beginning to appeal to names, but I was assured "it was certainly the case." Then we discussed Miss More's book on education, which I had never read. It seems Dr. Gregory, another of Miss Benjey's friends, has found fault with one of Miss More's metaphors. Miss More has been at some pains to vindicate herself--in the opinion of Miss Benjey, not without success. It seems the Doctor is invariably against the use of broken or mixed metaphor, which he reprobates against the authority of Shakspeare himself. We next discussed the question, whether Pope was a poet? I find Dr. Gregory is of opinion he was not, though Miss Seward does not at all concur with him in this. We then sat upon the comparative merits of the ten translations of "Pizarro," and Miss Benjey or Benje advised Mary to take two of them home; she thought it might afford her some pleasure to compare them _verbatim_; which we declined. It being now nine o'clock, wine and macaroons were again served round, and we parted, with a promise to go again next week, and meet the Miss Porters, who, it seems, have heard much of Mr. Coleridge, and wish to meet _us_, because we are _his_ friends. I have been preparing for the occasion. I crowd cotton in my ears. I read all the reviews and magazines of the past month against the dreadful meeting, and I hope by these means to cut a tolerable second-rate figure. Pray let us have no more complaints about shadows. We are in a fair way, _through you_, to surfeit sick upon them. Our loves and respects to your host and hostess. Our dearest love to Coleridge. Take no thought about your proof-sheets; they shall be done as if Woodfall himself did them. Pray send us word of Mrs. Coleridge and little David Hartley, your little reality. Farewell, dear Substance. Take no umbrage at any thing I have written. C. LAMB, _Umbra_. Land of Shadows, Shadow-month the 16th or 17th, 1800. Coleridge, I find loose among your papers a copy of "_Christabel_." It wants about thirty lines; you will very much oblige me by sending me the beginning as far as that line,-- "And the spring comes slowly up this way;" and the intermediate lines between-- "The lady leaps up suddenly. The lovely Lady Christabel;" and the lines,-- "She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak." The trouble to you _will be small_, and the benefit to us _very great_! A pretty antithesis! A figure in speech I much applaud. Godwin has called upon us. He spent one evening here. Was very friendly. Kept us up till midnight. Drank punch, and talked about you. He seems, above all men, mortified at your going away. Suppose you were to write to that good-natured heathen--"or is he a _shadow_?" If I do not _write_, impute it to the long postage, of which you have so much cause to complain. I have scribbled over a _queer letter_, as I find by perusal; but it means no mischief. I am, and will be, yours ever, in sober sadness, C. L. Write your _German_ as plain as sunshine, for that must correct itself. You know I am homo unius linguae: in English, illiterate, a dunce, a ninny. [Having left Lamb, Coleridge went to Grasmere, where he stayed at Dove Cottage with Wordsworth and finished his translation, which was ready for the printer on April 22. To what Lamb alludes in his reference to the homily on "Realities" I cannot say, but presumably Coleridge had written a metaphysical letter on this subject. Lamb returns to the matter at the end of the first part of his reply. Miss Wesley was Sarah Wesley (1760-1828), the daughter of Charles Wesley and, therefore, niece of the great John and Samuel. She moved much in literary society. Miss Benjay, or Benje, was in reality Elizabeth Ogilvy Benger (1778-1827), a friend of Mrs. Inchbald, Mrs. Barbauld and the Aikins, and other literary people. Madame de Stael called her the most interesting woman she had met in England. She wrote novels and poems and biographies. In those days there were two East Streets, one leading from Red Lion Square to Lamb's Conduit Street, and one in the neighbourhood of Clare Market. D'Israeli was Isaac Disraeli, the author of _The Curiosities of Literature_ and other books about books and authors; Miss More was Hannah More, and her book, _Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education, 1799_; Dr. Gregory I have not traced; Miss Seward was Anna Seward, the Swan of Lichfield; and the Miss Porters were Jane and Anna Maria, authors (later) respectively of _The Scottish Chiefs_ and _Thaddeus of Warsaw_, and _The Hungarian Brothers_. The proof-sheets were those of _Wallenstein_. Henry Sampson Woodfall was the famous printer of the _Letters of Junius_. _Christabel_, Coleridge's poem, had been begun in 1797; it was finished, in so far as it was finished, later in the year 1800. It was published first in 1816. "_Homo unius linguae_." Lamb exaggerated here. He had much Latin, a little Greek and apparently a little French. The sentence is in the manner of Burton, whom Lamb had been imitating. Here should come a letter dated April 23, 1800, to Robert Lloyd, which treats of obedience to parental wish. Lloyd seems to have objected to attend the meetings of the Society of Friends, of which he was a birthright member. Lamb bids him go; adding that, if his own parents were to live again, he would do more things to please them than merely sitting still a few hours in a week.] LETTER 55 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE [? Spring, 1800.] By some fatality, unusual with me, I have mislaid the list of books which you want. Can you, from memory, easily supply me with another? I confess to Statius, and I detained him wilfully, out of a reverent regard to your style. Statius, they tell me, is turgid. As to that other Latin book, since you know neither its name nor subject, your wants (I crave leave to apprehend) cannot be very urgent. Meanwhile, dream that it is one of the lost Decades of Livy. Your partiality to me has led you to form an erroneous opinion as to the measure of delight you suppose me to take in obliging. Pray, be careful that it spread no further. 'Tis one of those heresies that is very pregnant. Pray, rest more satisfied with the portion of learning which you have got, and disturb my peaceful ignorance as little as possible with such sort of commissions. Did you never observe an appearance well known by the name of the man in the moon? Some scandalous old maids have set on foot a report that it is Endymion. Dr. Stoddart talks of going out King's Advocate to Malta. He has studied the Civil and Canon Law just three canon months, to my knowledge. _Fiat justitia, ruat caelum._ Your theory about the first awkward step a man makes being the consequence of learning to dance, is not universal. We have known many youths bred up at Christ's, who never learned to dance, yet the world imputes to them no very graceful motions. I remember there was little Hudson, the immortal precentor of St. Paul's, to teach us our quavers: but, to the best of my recollection, there was no master of motions when we were at Christ's. Farewell, in haste. C.L. [Talfourd does not date this letter, merely remarking that it belongs to the present period. Canon Ainger dated it June 22, 1800; but this I think cannot be right when we take into consideration Letter 60 and what it says about Lamb's last letter to Coleridge (clearly that of May 12), and the time that has since elapsed. The birth of Charles Lloyd's first child, July 31, gives us the latest date to which Letter 60 could belong. "Your theory ..." This may have been contained in one of Coleridge's letters, now lost; I do not find it in any of the known _Morning Post_ articles.] LETTER 56 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE Monday, May 12th, 1800. My dear Coleridge--I don't know why I write, except from the propensity misery has to tell her griefs. Hetty died on Friday night, about eleven o'clock, after eight days' illness; Mary, in consequence of fatigue and anxiety, is fallen ill again, and I was obliged to remove her yesterday. I am left alone in a house with nothing but Hetty's dead body to keep me company. To-morrow I bury her, and then I shall be quite alone, with nothing but a cat to remind me that the house has been full of living beings like myself. My heart is quite sunk, and I don't know where to look for relief. Mary will get better again; but her constantly being liable to such relapses is dreadful; nor is it the least of our evils that her case and all our story is so well known around us. We are in a manner _marked_. Excuse my troubling you; but I have nobody by me to speak to me. I slept out last night, not being able to endure the change and the stillness. But I did not sleep well, and I must come back to my own bed. I am going to try and get a friend to come and be with me to-morrow. I am completely shipwrecked. My head is quite bad. I almost wish that Mary were dead.--God bless you! Love to Sara and Hartley. C. LAMB. [Hetty was the Lambs' aged servant. Here should come a letter from Lamb to Thomas Manning clearly written on May 12, 1800, the same day as that to Coleridge, stating that Lamb has given up his house, and is looking for lodgings,--White (with whom he had stayed) having "all kindness but not sympathy".] LETTER 57 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. May 20, 1800.] Dear Manning,--I feel myself unable to thank you sufficiently for your kind letter. It was doubly acceptable to me, both for the choice poetry and the kind honest prose which it contained. It was just such a letter as I should have expected from Manning. I am in much better spirits than when I wrote last. I have had a very eligible offer to lodge with a friend in town. He will have rooms to let at midsummer, by which time I hope my sister will be well enough to join me. It is a great object to me to live in town, where we shall be much more _private_, and to quit a house and neighbourhood where poor Mary's disorder, so frequently recurring, has made us a sort of marked people. We can be nowhere private except in the midst of London. We shall be in a family where we visit very frequently; only my landlord and I have not yet come to a conclusion. He has a partner to consult. I am still on the tremble, for I do not know where we could go into lodgings that would not be, in many respects, highly exceptionable. Only God send Mary well again, and I hope all will be well! The prospect, such as it is, has made me quite happy. I have just time to tell you of it, as I know it will give you pleasure.--Farewell. C. LAMB. [Manning's letter containing the choice poetry has not been preserved. The friend in town was John Mathew Gutch (1776-1861), with whom Lamb had been at school at Christ's Hospital, who was now a law stationer, in partnership with one Anderson, at 27 Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane, since demolished.] LETTER 58 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [No date. ? May 25, 1800.] Dear Manning, I am a letter in your debt, but I am scarcely rich enough (in spirits) to pay you.--I am writing at an inn on the Ware road, in the neighbourhood of which I am going to pass two days, being Whitsuntide.--Excuse the pen, tis the best I can get.--Poor Mary is very bad yet. I went yesterday hoping I should see her getting well, then I might have come into the country more chearful, but I could not get to see her. This has been a sad damp. Indeed I never in my life have been more wretched than I was all day yesterday. I am glad I am going away from business for a little while, for my head has been hot and ill. I shall be very much alone where I am going, which always revives me. I hope you will accept of this worthless memento, which I merely send as a token that I am in your debt. I will write upon my return, on Thursday at farthest. I return on Wednesday.-- God bless you. I was afraid you would think me forgetful, and that made me scribble this jumble. Sunday. [Here probably also should come an unpublished letter from Lamb to Manning, in which Lamb remarks that his goddess is Pecunia. In another letter to Manning belonging to the same period, Lamb returns to the subject of poverty:--"You dropt a word whether in jest or earnest, as if you would join me in some work, such as a review or series of papers, essays, or anything.--Were you serious? I want home occupation, & I more want money. Had you any scheme, or was it, as G. Dyer says, en passant? If I don't have a Legacy left me shortly I must get into pay with some newspaper for small gains. Mutton is twelvepence a pound." Here should come a letter from Lamb to Robert Lloyd, in which he describes a visit to Gutch's family at Oxford, and mentions his admiration for a fine head of Bishop Taylor in All Souls' Library, which was an inducement to the Oxford visit. He refers to Charles Lloyd's settlement in the Lakes, and suggests that it may be the means of again uniting him and Coleridge; adding that such men as Coleridge and Wordsworth would exclude solitude in the Hebrides or Thule. The following undated letter, which may be placed a little too soon in its present position, comes with a certain fitness here:--] LETTER 59 CHARLES LAMB TO JOHN MATHEW GUTCH [No date. 1800.] Dear Gutch, Anderson is not come home, and I am almost afraid to tell you what has happen'd, lest it should seem to have happened by my fault in not writing for you home sooner.-- This morning Henry, the eldest lad, was missing. We supposd he was only gone out on a morning's stroll, and that he would return, but he did not return & we discovered that he had opened your desk before he went, & I suppose taken all the money he could find, for on diligent search I could find none, and on opening your Letter to Anderson, which I thought necessary to get at the key, I learn that you had a good deal of money there. Several people have been here after you to-day, & the boys seem quite frightened, and do not know what to do. In particular, one gentleman wants to have some writings finished by Tuesday--For God's sake set out by the first coach. Mary has been crying all day about it, and I am now just going to some law stationer in the neighbourhood, that the eldest boy has recommended, to get him to come and be in the house for a day or so, to manage. I cannot think what detains Anderson. His sister is quite frightend about him. I am very sorry I did not write yesterday, but Henry persuaded me to wait till he could ascertain when some job must be done (at the furthest) for Mr. Foulkes, and as nothing had occurrd besides I did not like to disturb your pleasures. I now see my error, and shall be heartily ashamed to see you. [_That is as far as the letter goes on the first page. We then turn over, and find (as Gutch, to his immense relief, found before us) written right across both pages:_] A BITE!!! Anderson is come home, and the wheels of thy business are going on as ever. The boy is honest, and I am thy friend. And how does the coach-maker's daughter? Thou art her Phaeton, her Gig, and her Sociable. Commend me to Rob. C. LAMB. Saturday. [This letter is the first example extant of Lamb's tendency to hoaxing. Gutch was at that time courting a Miss Wheeley, the daughter of a Birmingham coachbuilder. It was while he was in Birmingham that Lamb wrote the letter. Anderson was his partner in business. Rob would be Robert Lloyd, then at Birmingham again. This, and one other, are the only letters of Lamb to Gutch that escaped destruction.] LETTER 60 CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE [? Late July, 1800.] Dear Coleridge,--Soon after I wrote to you last, an offer was made me by Gutch (you must remember him? at Christ's--you saw him, slightly, one day with Thomson at our house)--to come and lodge with him at his house in Southampton Buildings, Chancery-Lane. This was a very comfortable offer to me, the rooms being at a reasonable rent, and including the use of an old servant, besides being infinitely preferable to ordinary lodgings _in our case_, as you must perceive. As Gutch knew all our story and the perpetual liability to a recurrence in my sister's disorder, probably to the end of her life, I certainly think the offer very generous and very friendly. I have got three rooms (including servant) under L34 a year. Here I soon found myself at home; and here, in six weeks after, Mary was well enough to join me. So we are once more settled. I am afraid we are not placed out of the reach of future interruptions. But I am determined to take what snatches of pleasure we can between the acts of our distressful drama.... I have passed two days at Oxford on a visit, which I have long put off, to Gutch's family. The sight of the Bodleian Library and, above all, a fine bust of Bishop Taylor at All Souls', were particularly gratifying to me; unluckily, it was not a family where I could take Mary with me, and I am afraid there is something of dishonesty in any pleasures I take without _her_. She never goes anywhere. I do not know what I can add to this letter. I hope you are better by this time; and I desire to be affectionately remembered to Sara and Hartley. I expected before this to have had tidings of another little philosopher. Lloyd's wife is on the point of favouring the world. Have you seen the new edition of Burns? his posthumous works and letters? I have only been able to procure the first volume, which contains his life--very confusedly and badly written, and interspersed with dull pathological and _medical_ discussions. It is written by a Dr. Currie. Do you know the well-meaning doctor? Alas, _ne sutor ultra crepitum_! [_A few words omitted here_.] I hope to hear again from you very soon. Godwin is gone to Ireland on a visit to Grattan. Before he went I passed much time with him, and he has showed me particular attentions: N.B. A thing I much like. Your books are all safe: only I have not thought it necessary to fetch away your last batch, which I understand are at Johnson's the bookseller, who has got quite as much room, and will take as much care of them as myself--and you can send for them immediately from him. I wish you would advert to a letter I sent you at Grasmere about "Christabel," and comply with my request contained therein. Love to all friends round Skiddaw. C. LAMB. [The Coleridges had recently moved into Greta Hall, Keswick. Thomson would, I think, be Marmaduke Thompson, an old Christ's Hospitaller, to whom Lamb dedicated _Rosamund Gray_. He became a missionary. "Another little philosopher." Derwent Coleridge was born September 14, 1800. Lloyd's eldest son, Charles Grosvenor Lloyd, was born July 31, 1800. Dr. James Currie's Life of Burns was prefixed to an edition of his poems in 1800. Dugald Stewart called it "a strong and faithful picture." It was written to raise funds for Burns' widow and family. Godwin had gone to stay with Curran: he saw much of Grattan also. Johnson, the publisher and bookseller, lived at 72 St. Paul's Churchyard. He published Priestley's works.] LETTER 61 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE Aug. 6th, 1800. Dear Coleridge,--I have taken to-day, and delivered to Longman and Co., _Imprimis_: your books, viz., three ponderous German dictionaries, one volume (I can find no more) of German and French ditto, sundry other German books unbound, as you left them, Percy's Ancient Poetry, and one volume of Anderson's Poets. I specify them, that you may not lose any. _Secundo_: a dressing-gown (value, fivepence), in which you used to sit and look like a conjuror, when you were translating "Wallenstein." A case of two razors and a shaving-box and strap. This it has cost me a severe struggle to part with. They are in a brown-paper parcel, which also contains sundry papers and poems, sermons, _some few Epic_ Poems,--one about Cain and Abel, which came from Poole, &c., &c., and also your tragedy; with one or two small German books, and that drama in which Gotfader performs. _Tertio_: a small oblong box containing _all your letters_, collected from all your waste papers, and which fill the said little box. All other waste papers, which I judged worth sending, are in the paper parcel aforesaid. But you will find _all_ your letters in the box by themselves. Thus have I discharged my conscience and my lumber-room of all your property, save and except a folio entitled Tyrrell's Bibliotheca Politica, which you used to learn your politics out of when you wrote for the Post, _mutatis mutandis, i.e._, applying past inferences to modern _data_. I retain that, because I am sensible I am very deficient in the politics myself; and I have torn up--don't be angry, waste paper has risen forty per cent., and I can't afford to buy it--all Buonaparte's Letters, Arthur Young's Treatise on Corn, and one or two more light-armed infantry, which I thought better suited the flippancy of London discussion than the dignity of Keswick thinking. Mary says you will be in a damned passion about them when you come to miss them; but you must study philosophy. Read Albertus Magnus de Chartis Amissis five times over after phlebotomising,--'tis Burton's recipe--and then be angry with an absent friend if you can. I have just heard that Mrs. Lloyd is delivered of a fine boy, and mother and boy are doing well. Fie on sluggards, what is thy Sara doing? Sara is obscure. Am I to understand by her letter, that she sends a _kiss_ to Eliza Buckingham? Pray tell your wife that a note of interrogation on the superscription of a letter is highly ungrammatical--she proposes writing my name _Lamb_? Lambe is quite enough. I have had the Anthology, and like only one thing in it, _Lewti_; but of that the last stanza is detestable, the rest most exquisite!--the epithet _enviable_ would dash the finest poem. For God's sake (I never was more serious), don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print, or do it in better verses. It did well enough five years ago when I came to see you, and was moral coxcomb enough at the time you wrote the lines, to feed upon such epithets; but, besides that, the meaning of gentle is equivocal at best, and almost always means poor-spirited, the very quality of gentleness is abhorrent to such vile trumpetings. My _sentiment_ is long since vanished. I hope my _virtues_ have done _sucking_. I can scarce think but you meant it in joke. I hope you did, for I should be ashamed to think that you could think to gratify me by such praise, fit only to be a cordial to some green-sick sonneteer. I have hit off the following in imitation of old English poetry, which, I imagine, I am a dab at. The measure is unmeasureable; but it most resembles that beautiful ballad of the "Old and Young Courtier;" and in its feature of taking the extremes of two situations for just parallel, it resembles the old poetry certainly. If I could but stretch out the circumstances to twelve more verses, i.e., if I had as much genius as the writer of that old song, I think it would be excellent. It was to follow an imitation of Burton in prose, which you have not seen. But fate "and wisest Stewart" say No. I can send you 200 pens and six quires of paper _immediately_, if they will answer the carriage by coach. It would be foolish to pack 'em up _cum multis libris et caeteris_,--they would all spoil. I only wait your commands to coach them. I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W.'s tragedy, of which I have heard so much and seen so little--only what I saw at Stowey. Pray give me an order in writing on Longman for "Lyrical Ballads." I have the first volume, and, truth to tell, six shillings is a broad shot. I cram all I can in, to save a multiplying of letters--those pretty comets with swingeing tails. I'll just crowd in God bless you! C. LAMB. Wednesday night. [The epic about Cain and Abel was "The Wanderings of Cain," which Coleridge projected but never finished. The drama in which Got-fader performs would be perhaps "Faust"--"Der Herr" in the Prologue--or some old miracle play. "'Tis Burton's recipe." Lamb was just now steeped in the _Anatomy_; but there is no need to see if Burton says this. "Eliza Buckingham." Sara Coleridge's message was probably intended for Eliza, a servant at the Buckingham Street lodgings. Lambe was _The Anti-Jacobin's_ idea of Lamb's name; and indeed many persons adhered to it to the end. Mrs. Coleridge, when writing to her husband under care of Lamb at the India House, added "e" to Lamb's name to signify that the letter was for Coleridge. Wordsworth later also had some of his letters addressed in the same way--for the same economical reason. Coleridge's "Lewti" was reprinted, with alterations, from the _Morning Post_, in the _Annual Anthology_, Vol. II. Line 69 ran-- "Had I the enviable power;" Coleridge changed this to-- "Voice of the Night! had I the power." "This Lime-tree Bower my Prison; a Poem, addressed to Charles Lamb of the India House, London," was also in the _Annual Anthology_. Lamb objected to the phrase "My gentle-hearted Charles" (see above). Lamb says "five years ago"; he means three. Coleridge did not alter the phrase. It was against this poem that he wrote in pencil on his deathbed in 1834: "Ch. and Mary Lamb--dear to my heart, yea, as it were, my heart.--S. T. C. Aet. 63, 1834. 1797-1834 = 37 years!" "I have hit off the following"--"A Ballad Denoting the Difference between the Rich and the Poor," first printed among the Imitations of Burton in the _John Woodvil_ volume, 1802, see Vol. IV. "And wisest Stewart"--Stuart of the _Morning Post_. Adapted from Milton's "Hymn on the Nativity"-- "But wisest Fate says no." "W.'s (Wordsworth's) tragedy" was "The Borderers." The second edition of _Lyrical Ballads_ was just ready.] LETTER 62 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. August 9, 1800.] Dear Manning,--I suppose you have heard of Sophia Lloyd's good fortune, and paid the customary compliments to the parents. Heaven keep the new-born infant from star-blasting and moon-blasting, from epilepsy, marasmus, and the devil! May he live to see many days, and they good ones; some friends, and they pretty regular correspondents, with as much wit as wisdom as will eat their bread and cheese together under a poor roof without quarrelling; as much goodness as will earn heaven! Here I must leave off, my benedictory powers failing me. I could _curse_ the sheet full; so much stronger is corruption than grace in the Natural Man. And now, when shall I catch a glimpse of your honest face-to-face countenance again--your fine _dogmatical sceptical_ face, by punch-light? O! one glimpse of the human face, and shake of the human hand, is better than whole reams of this cold, thin correspondence--yea, of more worth than all the letters that have sweated the fingers of sensibility from Madame Sevigne and Balzac (observe my Larning!) to Sterne and Shenstone. Coleridge is settled with his wife and the young philosopher at Keswick with the Wordsworths. They have contrived to spawn a new volume of lyrical ballads, which is to see the light in about a month, and causes no little excitement in the _literary world_. George Dyer too, that good-natured heathen, is more than nine months gone with his twin volumes of ode, pastoral, sonnet, elegy, Spenserian, Horatian, Akensidish, and Masonic verse--Clio prosper the birth! it will be twelve shillings out of somebody's pocket. I find he means to exclude "personal satire," so it appears by his truly original advertisement. Well, God put it into the hearts of the English gentry to come in shoals and subscribe to his poems, for He never put a kinder heart into flesh of man than George Dyer's! Now farewell: for dinner is at hand. C. L. [Southey's letters contain a glimpse (as Mr. J.A. Rutter has pointed out) of Lamb and Manning by punch-light. Writing in 1824, describing a certain expression of Mrs. Coleridge's face, Southey says:-- First, then, it was an expression of dolorous alarm, such as Le Brun ought to have painted: but such as Manning never could have equalled, when, while Mrs. Lloyd was keeping her room in child-bed, he and Charles Lamb sate drinking punch in the room below till three in the morning-- Manning acting Le Brun's passions (punchified at the time), and Charles Lamb (punchified also) roaring aloud and swearing, while the tears ran down his cheeks, that it required more genius than even Shakespeare possessed to personate them so well; Charles Lloyd the while (not punchified) praying and entreating them to go to bed, and not disturb his wife by the uproar they were making. Southey's reminiscence, though interesting, is very confusing. Lamb does not seem to have visited Cambridge between the end of 1799 and January 5, 1800. At the latter date the Lloyds were in the north. Possibly Southey refers to an earlier illness of Mrs. Lloyd, which, writing after a long interval, he confused with confinement. "Balzac." Not, of course, the novelist; but Jean Louis Guez de Balzac (1594-1654) the letter-writer. Two or three lines have been omitted from this letter which can be read as written only in the Boston Bibliophile edition.] LETTER 63 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. August 11, 1800.] My dear fellow (_N.B._ mighty familiar of late!) for me to come to Cambridge now is one of God Almighty's impossibilities. Metaphysicians tell us, even He can work nothing which implies a contradiction. I can explain this by telling you that I am engaged to do double duty (this hot weather!) for a man who has taken advantage of this very weather to go and cool himself in "green retreats" all the month of August. But for you to come to London instead!--muse upon it, revolve it, cast it about in your mind. I have a bed at your command. You shall drink rum, brandy, gin, aqua-vitae, usquebaugh, or whiskey a' nights; and for the after-dinner trick I have eight bottles of genuine port, which, if mathematically divided, gives 1-1/7 for every day you stay, provided you stay a week. Hear John Milton sing, "Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause." Twenty-first Sonnet. And elsewhere,-- "What neat repast shall feast us, light[1] and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine,[2] whence we may rise To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?" Indeed, the poets are full of this pleasing morality-- "Veni cito, Domine Manning!" Think upon it. Excuse the paper: it is all I have. _N.B._--I lives at No. 27 Southampton Buildings, Holborn. C. LAMB. [Footnote 1: We poets generally give _light_ dinners.] [Footnote 2: No doubt the poet here alludes to port wine at 38s. the dozen.] LETTER 64 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE Thursday, Aug. 14, 1800. Read on and you'll come to the _Pens_. My head is playing all the tunes in the world, ringing such peals. It has just finished the "Merry Christ Church Bells," and absolutely is beginning "Turn again, Whittington." Buz, buz, buz: bum, bum, bum: wheeze, wheeze, wheeze: feu, feu, feu: tinky, tinky, tinky: _craunch_. I shall certainly come to be damned at last. I have been getting drunk for two days running. I find my moral sense in the last stage of a consumption, and my religion burning as blue and faint as the tops of evening bricks. Hell gapes and the Devil's great guts cry cupboard for me. In the midst of this infernal torture, Conscience (and be damn'd to her), is barking and yelping as loud as any of them. I have sat down to read over again, and I think I do begin to spy out something with beauty and design in it. I perfectly accede to all your alterations, and only desire that you had cut deeper, when your hand was in. In the next edition of the "Anthology" (which Phoebus avert and those nine other wandering maids also!) please to blot out _gentle-hearted_, and substitute drunken: dog, ragged-head, seld-shaven, odd-eyed, stuttering, or any other epithet which truly and properly belongs to the gentleman in question. And for Charles read Tom, or Bob, or Richard _for more delicacy_. Damn you, I was beginning to forgive you and believe in earnest that the lugging in of my proper name was purely unintentional on your part, when looking back for further conviction, stares me in the face _Charles Lamb of the India House. Now_ I am convinced it was all done in malice, heaped sack-upon-sack, congregated, studied malice. You Dog! your 141st page shall not save you. I own I was just ready to acknowledge that there is a something not unlike good poetry in that page, if you had not run into the unintelligible abstraction-fit about the manner of the Deity's making spirits perceive his presence. God, nor created thing alive, can receive any honour from such thin show-box attributes. By-the-by, where did you pick up that scandalous piece of private history about the angel and the Duchess of Devonshire? If it is a fiction of your own, why truly it is a very modest one _for you_. Now I do affirm that "Lewti" is a very beautiful poem. I _was_ in earnest when I praised it. It describes a silly species of one not the wisest of passions. _Therefore_ it cannot deeply affect a disenthralled mind. But such imagery, such novelty, such delicacy, and such versification never got into an "Anthology" before. I am only sorry that the cause of all the passionate complaint is not greater than the trifling circumstance of Lewti being out of temper one day. In sober truth, I cannot see any great merit in the little Dialogue called "Blenheim." It is rather novel and pretty; but the thought is very obvious and children's poor prattle, a thing of easy imitation. _Pauper vult videri et_ EST. "Gualberto" certainly has considerable originality, but sadly wants finishing. It is, as it is, one of the very best in the book. Next to "Lewti" I like the "Raven," which has a good deal of humour. I was pleased to see it again, for you once sent it me, and I have lost the letter which contained it. Now I am on the subject of Anthologies, I must say I am sorry the old Pastoral way has fallen into disrepute. The Gentry which now indite Sonnets are certainly the legitimate descendants of the ancient shepherds. The same simpering face of description, the old family face, is visibly continued in the line. Some of their ancestors' labours are yet to be found in Allan Ramsay's and Jacob Tonson's _Miscellanies_. But, miscellanies decaying and the old Pastoral way dying of mere want, their successors (driven from their paternal acres) now-a-days settle and hive upon Magazines and Anthologies. This Race of men are uncommonly addicted to superstition. Some of them are Idolaters and worship the Moon. Others deify qualities, as love, friendship, sensibility, or bare accidents, as Solitude. Grief and Melancholy have their respective altars and temples among them, as the heathens builded theirs to Mors, Febris, Palloris. They all agree in ascribing a peculiar sanctity to the number fourteen. One of their own legislators affirmeth, that whatever exceeds that number "encroacheth upon the province of the Elegy"--_vice versa_, whatever "cometh short of that number abutteth upon the premises of the Epigram." I have been able to discover but few _Images_ in their temples, which, like the Caves of Delphos of old, are famous for giving _Echoes_. They impute a religious importance to the letter O, whether because by its roundness it is thought to typify the moon, their principal goddess, or for its analogies to their own labours, all ending where they began; or whatever other high and mystical reference, I have never been able to discover, but I observe they never begin their invocations to their gods without it, except indeed one insignificant sect among them, who use the Doric A, pronounced like Ah! broad, instead. These boast to have restored the old Dorian mood. Now I am on the subject of poetry, I must announce to you, who, doubtless, in your remote part of the Island, have not heard tidings of so great a blessing, that GEORGE DYER hath prepared two ponderous volumes full of Poetry and Criticism. They impend over the town, and are threatened to fall in the winter. The first volume contains every sort of poetry except personal satire, which George, in his truly original prospectus, renounceth for ever, whimsically foisting the intention in between the price of his book and the proposed number of subscribers. (If I can, I will get you a copy of his _handbill_.) He has tried his _vein_ in every species besides--the Spenserian, Thomsonian, Masonic and Akensidish more especially. The second volume is all criticism; wherein he demonstrates to the entire satisfaction of the literary world, in a way that must silence all reply for ever, that the pastoral was introduced by Theocritus and polished by Virgil and Pope--that Gray and Mason (who always hunt in couples in George's brain) have a good deal of poetical fire and true lyric genius--that Cowley was ruined by excess of wit (a warning to all moderns)--that Charles Lloyd, Charles Lamb, and William Wordsworth, in later days, have struck the true chords of poesy. O, George, George, with a head uniformly wrong and a heart uniformly right, that I had power and might equal to my wishes!--then I would call the Gentry of thy native Island, and they should come in troops, flocking at the sound of thy Prospectus Trumpet, and crowding who shall be first to stand in thy List of Subscribers. I can only put twelve shillings into thy pocket (which, I will answer for them, will not stick there long), out of a pocket almost as bare as thine. [_Lamb here erases six lines._] Is it not a pity so much fine writing should be erased? But, to tell the truth, I began to scent that I was getting into that sort of style which Longinus and Dionysius Halicarnassus aptly call "the affected." But I am suffering from the combined effect of two days' drunkenness, and at such times it is not very easy to think or express in a natural series. The ONLY useful OBJECT of this Letter is to apprize you that on Saturday I shall transmit the PENS by the same coach I sent the Parcel. So enquire them out. You had better write to Godwin _here_, directing your letter to be forwarded to him. I don't know his address. You know your letter must at any rate come to London first. C. L. ["Your satire upon me"--"This Lime-tree Bower my Prison" (see above). "Those nine other wandering maids"--the Muses. A recollection of _The Anti-Jacobin's_ verses on Lamb and his friends (see above). "Your 141st page." "This Lime-tree Bower" again. By "unintelligible abstraction-fit" Lamb refers to the passage:-- Ah! slowly sink Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem Less gross than bodily; and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet He makes Spirits perceive His presence. "That scandalous piece of private history." A reference to Coleridge's "Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire," reprinted in the _Annual Anthology_ from the _Morning Post_. "Blenheim"--Southey's ballad, "It was a summer's evening." "Gualberto." The poem "St. Gualberto" by Southey, in the _Annual Anthology_. "The Raven" was referred to in Lamb's letter of Feb. 5, 1797. George Dyer's _Poems_, in two volumes, were published in 1800. See note to Letter 80. Upon the phrase "the tops of evening bricks" in this letter, editors have been divided. The late Dr. Garnett, who annotated the Boston Bibliophile edition, is convinced that "evening" is the word, and he says that the bricks meant were probably briquettes of compressed coal dust.] LETTER 65 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. August 24, 1800.] Dear Manning,--I am going to ask a favour of you, and am at a loss how to do it in the most delicate manner. For this purpose I have been looking into Pliny's Letters, who is noted to have had the best grace in begging of all the ancients (I read him in the elegant translation of Mr. Melmoth), but not finding any case there exactly similar with mine, I am constrained to beg in my own barbarian way. To come to the point then, and hasten into the middle of things, have you a copy of your Algebra to give away? I do not ask it for myself; I have too much reverence for the Black Arts ever to approach thy circle, illustrious Trismegist! But that worthy man and excellent Poet, George Dyer, made me a visit yesternight, on purpose to borrow one, supposing, rationally enough I must say, that you had made me a present of one before this; the omission of which I take to have proceeded only from negligence; but it is a fault. I could lend him no assistance. You must know he is just now diverted from the pursuit of BELL LETTERS by a paradox, which he has heard his friend Frend (that learned mathematician) maintain, that the negative quantities of mathematicians were _merae nugae_, things scarcely _in rerum natura_, and smacking too much of mystery for gentlemen of Mr. Frend's clear Unitarian capacity. However, the dispute once set a-going has seized violently on George's pericranick; and it is necessary for his health that he should speedily come to a resolution of his doubts. He goes about teasing his friends with his new mathematics; he even frantically talks of purchasing Manning's Algebra, which shows him far gone, for, to my knowledge, he has not been master of seven shillings a good time. George's pockets and ----'s brains are two things in nature which do not abhor a vacuum.... Now, if you could step in, in this trembling suspense of his reason, and he should find on Saturday morning, lying for him at the Porter's Lodge, Clifford's Inn,--his safest address--Manning's Algebra, with a neat manuscriptum in the blank leaf, running thus, FROM THE AUTHOR! it might save his wits and restore the unhappy author to those studies of poetry and criticism, which are at present suspended, to the infinite regret of the whole literary world. N.B.--Dirty books [?backs], smeared leaves, and dogs' ears, will be rather a recommendation than otherwise. N.B.--He must have the book as soon as possible, or nothing can withhold him from madly purchasing the book on tick.... Then shall we see him sweetly restored to the chair of Longinus--to dictate in smooth and modest phrase the laws of verse; to prove that Theocritus first introduced the Pastoral, and Virgil and Pope brought it to its perfection; that Gray and Mason (who always hunt in couples in George's brain) have shown a great deal of poetical fire in their lyric poetry; that Aristotle's rules are not to be servilely followed, which George has shown to have imposed great shackles upon modern genius. His poems, I find, are to consist of two vols.--reasonable octavo; and a third book will exclusively contain criticisms, in which he asserts he has gone _pretty deeply_ into the laws of blank verse and rhyme--epic poetry, dramatic and pastoral ditto--all which is to come out before Christmas. But above all he has _touched_ most _deeply_ upon the Drama, comparing the English with the modern German stage, their merits and defects. Apprehending that his _studies_ (not to mention his _turn_, which I take to be chiefly towards the lyrical poetry) hardly qualified him for these disquisitions, I modestly inquired what plays he had read? I found by George's reply that he _had_ read Shakspeare, but that was a good while since: he calls him a great but irregular genius, which I think to be an original and just remark. (Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Ben Jonson, Shirley, Marlowe, Ford, and the worthies of Dodsley's Collection--he confessed he had read none of them, but professed his intention of looking through them all, so as to be able to touch upon them in his book.) So Shakspeare, Otway, and I believe Rowe, to whom he was naturally directed by Johnson's Lives, and these not read lately, are to stand him in stead of a general knowledge of the subject. God bless his dear absurd head! By the by, did I not write you a letter with something about an invitation in it?--but let that pass; I suppose it is not agreeable. N.B. It would not be amiss if you were to accompany your present with a dissertation on negative quantities. C. L. [Mr. Melmoth. A translation of the _Letters_ of Pliny the Younger was made by William Melmoth in 1746. Trismegistus--thrice greatest--was the term applied to Hermes, the Egyptian philosopher. Manning had written _An Introduction to Arithmetic and Algebra_, 1796, 1798. William Frend (1757-1841), the mathematician and Unitarian, who had been prosecuted in the Vice-Chancellor's Court at Cambridge for a tract entitled "Peace and Union Recommended to the Associated Bodies of Republicans and Anti-Republicans," in which he attacked much of the Liturgy of the Church of England. He was found guilty and banished from the University of Cambridge. He had been a friend of Robert Robinson, whose life Dyer wrote, and remained a friend of Dyer to the end of his life. Coleridge had been among the undergraduates who supported Frend at his trial. "...'s brain." In a later letter Lamb uses Judge Park's wig, when his head is in it, as a simile for emptiness.] LETTER 66 CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE August 26th, 1800. How do you like this little epigram? It is not my writing, nor had I any finger in it. If you concur with me in thinking it very elegant and very original, I shall be tempted to name the author to you. I will just hint that it is almost or quite a first attempt. HELEN REPENTANT TOO LATE 1 High-born Helen, round your dwelling These twenty years I've paced in vain: Haughty beauty, your lover's duty Has been to glory in his pain. 2 High-born Helen! proudly telling Stories of your cold disdain; I starve, I die, now you comply, And I no longer can complain. 3 These twenty years I've lived on tears, Dwelling for ever on a frown; On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread; I perish now you kind are grown. 4 Can I, who loved my Beloved But for the "scorn was in her eye," Can I be moved for my Beloved, When she "returns me sigh for sigh?" 5 In stately pride, by my bed-side, High-born Helen's portrait's hung; Deaf to my praise; my mournful lays Are nightly to the portrait sung. 6 To that I weep, nor ever sleep, Complaining all night long to her! _Helen, grown old, no longer cold, Said_, "You to all men I prefer." Godwin returned from Wicklow the week before last, tho' he did not reach home till the Sunday after. He might much better have spent that time with you.--But you see your invitation would have been too late. He greatly regrets the occasion he mist of visiting you, but he intends to revisit Ireland in the next summer, and then he will certainly take Keswick in his way. I dined with the Heathen on Sunday. By-the-by, I have a sort of recollection that somebody, I think _you_, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's Tragedy. I should be very glad of it just now; for I have got Manning with me, and should like to read it _with him_. But this, I confess, is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone in Cold Bath Prison, or in the desert island, just when Prospero & his crew had set off, with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family; but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices. I have just lit upon a most beautiful fiction of hell punishments, by the author of "Hurlothrumbo," a mad farce. The inventor imagines that in hell there is a great caldron of hot water, in which a man can scarce hold his finger, and an immense sieve over it, into which the probationary souls are put. "And all the little souls Pop through the riddle holes." Mary's love to Mrs. Coleridge--mine to all. N.B.--I pays no Postage.-- George Dyer is the only literary character I am happily acquainted with. The oftener I see him, the more deeply I admire him. He is goodness itself. If I could but calculate the precise date of his death, I would write a novel on purpose to make George the hero. I could hit him off to a hair. George brought a Dr. Anderson to see me. The Doctor is a very pleasant old man, a great genius for agriculture, one that ties his breeches-knees with Packthread, & boasts of having had disappointments from ministers. The Doctor happened to mention an Epic Poem by one Wilkie, called the "Epigoniad," in which he assured us there is not one tolerable line from beginning to end, but all the characters, incidents, &c., are verbally copied from _Homer_. George, who had been sitting quite inattentive to the Doctor's criticism, no sooner heard the sound of _Homer_ strike his pericraniks, than up he gets, and declares he must see that poem immediately: where was it to be had? An epic poem of 800 [? 8,000] lines, and _he_ not hear of it! There must be some things good in it, and it was necessary he should see it, for he had touched pretty deeply upon that subject in his criticisms on the Epic. George has touched pretty deeply upon the Lyric, I find; he has also prepared a dissertation on the Drama and the comparison of the English and German theatres. As I rather doubted his competency to do the latter, knowing that his peculiar _turn_ lies in the lyric species of composition, I questioned George what English plays he had read. I found that he _had_ read Shakspere (whom he calls an original, but irregular, genius), but it was a good while ago; and he has dipt into Rowe and Otway, I suppose having found their names in Johnson's Lives at full length; and upon this slender ground he has undertaken the task. He never seem'd even to have heard of Fletcher, Ford, Marlow, Massinger, and the Worthies of Dodsley's Collection; but he is to read all these, to prepare him for bringing out his "Parallel" in the winter. I find he is also determined to vindicate Poetry from the shackles which Aristotle & some others have imposed upon it, which is very good-natured of him, and very necessary just now! Now I am _touching_ so deeply upon poetry, can I forget that I have just received from Cottle a magnificent copy of his Guinea Epic. Four-and-twenty Books to read in the dog-days! I got as far as the Mad Monk the first day, & fainted. Mr. Cottle's genius strongly points him to the _Pastoral_, but his inclinations divert him perpetually from his calling. He imitates Southey, as Rowe did Shakspeare, with his "Good morrow to ye; good master Lieut't." Instead of _a_ man, _a_ woman, _a_ daughter, he constantly writes one a man, one a woman, one his daughter. Instead of _the_ king, _the_ hero, he constantly writes, he the king, he the hero--two flowers of rhetoric palpably from the "Joan." But Mr. Cottle soars a higher pitch: and when he _is_ original, it is in a most original way indeed. His terrific scenes are indefatigable. Serpents, asps, spiders, ghosts, dead bodies, staircases made of nothing, with adders' tongues for bannisters--My God! what a brain he must have! He puts as many plums in his pudding as my Grandmother used to do; and then his emerging from Hell's horrors into Light, and treading on pure flats of this earth for twenty-three Books together! C. L. [The little epigram was by Mary Lamb. It was printed first in the _John Woodvil_ volume in 1802; and again, in a footnote to Lamb's essay "Blakesmoor in H----shire," 1824. Godwin's return was from his visit to Curran. Coleridge had asked him to break his journey at Keswick. "Wordsworth's Tragedy"--"The Borderers." "I would write a novel." Lamb returns to this idea in Letter 91. One of Dyer's printed criticisms of Shakespeare, in his _Poetics_, some years later might be quoted: "Shakespeare had the inward clothing of a fine mind; the outward covering of solid reading, of critical observation, and the richest eloquence; and compared with these, what are the trappings of the schools?" "Cottle's Guinea Epic" would be _Alfred, an Epic Poem_, by Joseph Cottle, the publisher.] LETTER 67 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. August 28, 1800.] George Dyer is an Archimedes, and an Archimagus, and a Tycho Brahe, and a Copernicus; and thou art the darling of the Nine, and midwife to their wandering babe also! We take tea with that learned poet and critic on Tuesday night, at half-past five, in his neat library; the repast will be light and Attic, with criticism. If thou couldst contrive to wheel up thy dear carcase on the Monday, and after dining with us on tripe, calves' kidneys, or whatever else the Cornucopia of St. Clare may be willing to pour out on the occasion, might we not adjourn together to the Heathen's--thou with thy Black Backs and I with some innocent volume of the Bell Letters--Shenstone, or the like? It would make him wash his old flannel gown (that has not been washed to my knowledge since it has been _his_--Oh the long time!) with tears of joy. Thou shouldst settle his scruples and unravel his cobwebs, and sponge off the sad stuff that weighs upon his dear wounded pia mater; thou shouldst restore light to his eyes, and him to his friends and the public; Parnassus should shower her civic crowns upon thee for saving the wits of a citizen! I thought I saw a lucid interval in George the other night--he broke in upon my studies just at tea-time, and brought with him Dr. Anderson, an old gentleman who ties his breeches' knees with packthread, and boasts that he has been disappointed by ministers. The Doctor wanted to see _me_; for, I being a Poet, he thought I might furnish him with a copy of verses to suit his "Agricultural Magazine." The Doctor, in the course of the conversation, mentioned a poem called "Epigoniad" by one Wilkie, an epic poem, in which there is not one tolerable good line all through, but every incident and speech borrowed from Homer. George had been sitting inattentive seemingly to what was going on--hatching of negative quantities--when, suddenly, the name of his old friend Homer stung his pericranicks, and, jumping up, he begged to know where he could meet with Wilkie's work. "It was a curious fact that there should be such an epic poem and he not know of it; and he _must_ get a copy of it, as he was going to touch pretty deeply upon the subject of the Epic--and he was sure there must be some things good in a poem of 1400 lines!" I was pleased with this transient return of his reason and recurrence to his old ways of thinking: it gave me great hopes of a recovery, which nothing but your book can completely insure. Pray come on Monday if you _can_, and stay your own time. I have a good large room, with two beds in it, in the handsomest of which thou shalt repose a-nights, and dream of Spheroides. I hope you will understand by the nonsense of this letter that I am _not_ melancholy at the thoughts of thy coming: I thought it necessary to add this, because you love _precision_. Take notice that our stay at Dyer's will not exceed eight o'clock, after which our pursuits will be our own. But indeed I think a little recreation among the Bell Letters and poetry will do you some service in the interval of severer studies. I hope we shall fully discuss with George Dyer what I have never yet heard done to my satisfaction, the reason of Dr. Johnson's malevolent strictures on the higher species of the Ode. ["Thy Black Back"--Manning's Algebra. Dr. Anderson was James Anderson (1739-1808), the editor, at that time, of _Recreations in Agriculture, Natural History, Arts, and Miscellaneous History_, published in monthly parts. Lamb gave him a copy of verses--three extracts from _John Woodvil_ which were printed in the number for November, 1800, as being "from an unpublished drama by C. Lamb." They were the "Description of a Forest Life," "The General Lover" ("What is it you love?") and "Fragment or Dialogue," better known as "The Dying Lover." All have slight variations from other versions. The most striking is the epithet "lubbar bands of sleep," instead of "lazy bands of sleep," in the "Description of a Forest Life." Wilkie was William Wilkie (1721-1772), the "Scottish Homer," whose _Epigoniad_ in nine books, based on the fourth book of the _Iliad_, was published in 1757.] LETTER 68 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. Sept. 22, 1800.] Dear Manning,--You needed not imagine any apology necessary. Your fine hare and fine birds (which just now are dangling by our kitchen blaze) discourse most eloquent music in your justification. You just nicked my palate. For, with all due decorum and leave may it be spoken, my worship hath taken physic for his body to-day, and being low and puling, requireth to be pampered. Foh! how beautiful and strong those buttered onions come to my nose! For you must know we extract a divine spirit of gravy from those materials which, duly compounded with a consistence of bread and cream (y'clept bread-sauce), each to each giving double grace, do mutually illustrate and set off (as skilful goldfoils to rare jewels) your partridge, pheasant, woodcock, snipe, teal, widgeon, and the other lesser daughters of the ark. My friendship, struggling with my carnal and fleshly prudence (which suggests that a bird a man is the proper allotment in such cases), yearneth sometimes to have thee here to pick a wing or so. I question if your Norfolk sauces match our London culinaric. George Dyer has introduced me to the table of an agreeable old gentleman, Dr. Anderson, who gives hot legs of mutton and grape pies at his sylvan lodge at Isleworth, where, in the middle of a street, he has shot up a wall most preposterously before his small dwelling, which, with the circumstance of his taking several panes of glass out of bedroom windows (for air), causeth his neighbours to speculate strangely on the state of the good man's pericranicks. Plainly, he lives under the reputation of being deranged. George does not mind this circumstance; he rather likes him the better for it. The Doctor, in his pursuits, joins agricultural to poetical science, and has set George's brains mad about the old Scotch writers, Harbour, Douglas's Aeneid, Blind Harry, &c. We returned home in a return postchaise (having dined with the Doctor), and George kept wondering and wondering, for eight or nine turnpike miles, what was the name, and striving to recollect the name, of a poet anterior to Barbour. I begged to know what was remaining of his works. "There is nothing _extant_ of his works, Sir, but by all accounts he seems to have been a fine genius!" This fine genius, without anything to show for it or any title beyond George's courtesy, without even a name! and Barbour, and Douglas, and Blind Harry, now are the predominant sounds in George's pia mater, and their buzzings exclude politics, criticism, and algebra--the late lords of that illustrious lumber-room. Mark, he has never read any of these bucks, but is impatient till he reads them _all_ at the Doctor's suggestion. Poor Dyer! his friends should be careful what sparks they let fall into such inflammable matter. Could I have my will of the heathen, I would lock him up from all access of new ideas; I would exclude all critics that would not swear me first (upon their Virgil) that they would feed him with nothing but the old, safe, familiar notions and sounds (the rightful aborigines of his brain)--Gray, Akenside and Mason. In these sounds, reiterated as often as possible, there could be nothing painful, nothing distracting. God bless me, here are the birds, smoking hot! All that is gross and unspiritual in me rises at the sight! Avaunt friendship and all memory of absent friends! C. LAMB. ["Divine spirit of gravy." This passage is the first of Lamb's outbursts of gustatory ecstasy, afterwards to become frequent in his writings. Here should come a letter, dated October 9, 1800, in the richest spirit of comedy, describing to Coleridge an evening with George Dyer and the Cottles after the death of their brother Amos; and how Lamb, by praising Joseph Cottle's poem, drew away that good man's thoughts from his grief. "Joseph, who till now had sat with his knees cowering in by the fireplace, wheeled about, and with great difficulty of body shifted the same round to the corner of a table where I was sitting, and first stationing one thigh over the other, which is his sedentary mood, and placidly fixing his benevolent face right against mine, waited my observations. At that moment it came strongly into my mind, that I had got Uncle Toby before me, he looked so kind and so good." The letter, printed in full in other editions, is, I am given to understand, not available for this.] LETTER 69 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. Oct. 16, 1800.] Dear Manning,--Had you written one week before you did, I certainly should have obeyed your injunction; you should have seen me before my letter. I will explain to you my situation. There are six of us in one department. Two of us (within these four days) are confined with severe fevers; and two more, who belong to the Tower Militia, expect to have marching orders on Friday. Now six are absolutely necessary. I have already asked and obtained two young hands to supply the loss of the _feverites_; and, with the other prospect before me, you may believe I cannot decently ask leave of absence for myself. All I can promise (and I do promise with the sincerity of Saint Peter, and the contrition of sinner Peter if I fail) that I will come _the very first spare week_, and go nowhere till I have been at Cambridge. No matter if you are in a state of pupilage when I come; for I can employ myself in Cambridge very pleasantly in the mornings. Are there not libraries, halls, colleges, books, pictures, statues? I wish to God you had made London in your way. There is an exhibition quite uncommon in Europe, which could not have escaped _your genius_,--a live rattlesnake, ten feet in length, and the thickness of a big leg. I went to see it last night by candlelight. We were ushered into a room very little bigger than ours at Pentonville. A man and woman and four boys live in this room, joint tenants with nine snakes, most of them such as no remedy has been discovered for their bite. We walked into the middle, which is formed by a half-moon of wired boxes, all mansions of _snakes_,--whip-snakes, thunder-snakes, pig-nose-snakes, American vipers, and _this monster_. He lies curled up in folds; and immediately a stranger enters (for he is used to the family, and sees them play at cards,) he set up a rattle like a watchman's in London, or near as loud, and reared up a head, from the midst of these folds, like a toad, and shook his head, and showed every sign a snake can show of irritation. I had the foolish curiosity to strike the wires with my finger, and the devil flew at me with his toad-mouth wide open: the inside of his mouth is quite white. I had got my finger away, nor could he well have bit me with his damn'd big mouth, which would have been certain death in five minutes. But it frightened me so much, that I did not recover my voice for a minute's space. I forgot, in my fear, that he was secured. You would have forgot too, for 'tis incredible how such a monster can be confined in small gauzy-looking wires. I dreamed of snakes in the night. I wish to heaven you could see it. He absolutely swelled with passion to the bigness of a large thigh. I could not retreat without infringing on another box, and just behind, a little devil not an inch from my back, had got his nose out, with some difficulty and pain, quite through the bars! He was soon taught better manners. All the snakes were curious, and objects of terror: but this monster, like Aaron's serpent, swallowed up the impression of the rest. He opened his damn'd mouth, when he made at me, as wide as his head was broad. I hallooed out quite loud, and felt pains all over my body with the fright. I have had the felicity of hearing George Dyer read out one book of "The Farmer's Boy." I thought it rather childish. No doubt, there is originality in it, (which, in your self-taught geniuses, is a most rare quality, they generally getting hold of some bad models in a scarcity of books, and forming their taste on them,) but no _selection_. _All_ is described. Mind, I have only heard read one book. Yours sincerely, Philo-Snake, C. L. [_The Farmer's Boy_, by Robert Bloomfield, was published in March, 1800, and was immensely popular. Other criticisms upon it by Lamb will be found in this work. Lamb's visit to Cambridge was deferred until January 5, 1801.] LETTER 70 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. Nov. 3, 1800.] _Ecquid meditatur Archimedes?_ What is Euclid doing? What has happened to learned Trismegist?--Doth he take it in ill part, that his humble friend did not comply with his courteous invitation? Let it suffice, I could not come--are impossibilities nothing--be they abstractions of the intellects or not (rather) most sharp and mortifying realities? nuts in the Will's mouth too hard for her to crack? brick and stone walls in her way, which she can by no means eat through? sore lets, _impedimenta viarum_, no thoroughfares? _racemi nimium alte pendentes_? Is the phrase classic? I allude to the grapes in Aesop, which cost the fox a strain, and gained the world an aphorism. Observe the superscription of this letter. In adapting the size of the letters, which constitute _your_ name and Mr. _Crisp's_ name respectively, I had an eye to your different stations, in life. 'Tis really curious, and must be soothing to an _aristocrat_. I wonder it has never been hit on before my time. I have made an acquisition latterly of a _pleasant hand_, one Rickman, to whom I was introduced by George Dyer, not the most flattering auspices under which one man can be introduced to another. George brings all sorts of people together, setting up a sort of agrarian law, or common property, in matter of society; but for once he has done me a great pleasure, while he was only pursuing a principle, as _ignes fatui may_ light you home. This Rickman lives in our Buildings, immediately opposite our house; the finest fellow to drop in a' nights, about nine or ten o'clock--cold bread-and-cheese time--just in the _wishing_ time of the night, when you _wish_ for somebody to come in, without a distinct idea of a probable anybody. Just in the nick, neither too early to be tedious, nor too late to sit a reasonable time. He is a most pleasant hand: a fine rattling fellow, has gone through life laughing at solemn apes; himself hugely literate, oppressively full of information in all stuff of conversation, from matter of fact to Xenophon and Plato--can talk Greek with Porson, politics with Thelwall, conjecture with George Dyer, nonsense with me, and anything with anybody: a great farmer, somewhat concerned in an agricultural magazine--reads no poetry but Shakspeare, very intimate with Southey, but never reads his poetry: relishes George Dyer, thoroughly penetrates into the ridiculous wherever found, understands the _first time_ (a great desideratum in common minds)--you need never twice speak to him; does not want explanations, translations, limitations, as Professor Godwin does when you make an assertion: _up_ to anything, _down_ to everything--whatever _sapit hominem_. A perfect _man_. All this farrago, which must perplex you to read, and has put me to a little trouble to _select_, only proves how impossible it is to describe a _pleasant hand_. You must see Rickman to know him, for he is a species in one. A new class. An exotic, any slip of which I am proud to put in my garden-pot. The clearest-headed fellow. Fullest of matter with least verbosity. If there be any alloy in my fortune to have met with such a man, it is that he commonly divides his time between town and country, having some foolish family ties at Christchurch, by which means he can only gladden our London hemisphere with returns of light. He is now going for six weeks. At last I have written to Kemble, to know the event of my play, which was presented last Christmas. As I suspected, came an answer back that the copy was lost, and could not be found--no hint that anybody had to this day ever looked into it--with a courteous (reasonable!) request of another copy (if I had one by me,) and a promise of a definite answer in a week. I could not resist so facile and moderate a demand, so scribbled out another, omitting sundry things, such as the witch story, about half of the forest scene (which is too leisurely for story), and transposing that damn'd soliloquy about England getting drunk, which, like its reciter, stupidly stood alone, nothing prevenient or antevenient, and cleared away a good deal besides; and sent this copy, written _all out_ (with alterations, &c., _requiring judgment_) in one day and a half! I sent it last night, and am in weekly expectation of the tolling-bell and death-warrant. This is all my Lunnon news. Send me some from the _banks of Cam_, as the poets delight to speak, especially George Dyer, who has no other name, nor idea, nor definition of Cambridge: namely, its being a market-town, sending members to Parliament, never entered into his definition: it was and is, simply, the banks of the Cam or the fair Cam, as Oxford is the banks of the Isis or the fair Isis. Yours in all humility, most illustrious Trismegist, C. LAMB. (Read on; there's more at the bottom.) You ask me about the "Farmer's Boy"--don't you think the fellow who wrote it (who is a shoemaker) has a poor mind? Don't you find he is always silly about _poor Giles_, and those abject kind of phrases, which mark a man that looks up to wealth? None of Burns's poet-dignity. What do you think? I have just opened him; but he makes me sick. Dyer knows the shoemaker (a damn'd stupid hound in company); but George promises to introduce him indiscriminately to all friends and all combinations. [Mr. Crisp was Manning's landlord, a barber in St. Mary's Passage, Cambridge. In one letter at least Lamb spells his name Crips--a joke he was fond of. "Rickman" was John Rickman (1771-1840), already a friend of Southey's, whom he had met at Burton, near Christchurch, in Hampshire, where Rickman's father lived. A graduate of Lincoln College, Oxford, he was at this time secretary to Charles Abbot, afterwards Lord Colchester. He had conducted the _Commercial, Agricultural_, and Manufacturer's Magazine, and he was practically the originator of the census in England. We shall meet with him often in the correspondence. Kemble was John Philip Kemble, then manager of Drury Lane. The play was "John Woodvil." For an account of the version which Lamb submitted, see the Notes to Vol. IV. George Dyer wrote a _History of Cambridge University_. George Daniel, the antiquary and bookseller, tells us that many years later he took Bloomfield to dine with Lamb at Islington.] LETTER 71 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. Nov. 28, 1800.] Dear Manning,--I have received a very kind invitation from Lloyd and Sophia to go and spend a month with them at the Lakes. Now it fortunately happens (which is so seldom the case!) that I have spare cash by me, enough to answer the expenses of so long a journey; and I am determined to get away from the office by some means. The purpose of this letter is to request of you (my dear friend) that you will not take it unkind if I decline my proposed visit to Cambridge _for the present_. Perhaps I shall be able to take Cambridge _in my way_, going or coming. I need not describe to you the expectations which such an one as myself, pent up all my life in a dirty city, have formed of a tour to the Lakes. Consider Grasmere! Ambleside! Wordsworth! Coleridge! I hope you will.* Hills, woods, lakes, and mountains, to the eternal devil. I will eat snipes with thee, Thomas Manning. Only confess, confess, a _bite_. _P.S._ I think you named the 16th; but was it not modest of Lloyd to send such an invitation! It shows his knowledge of money and time. I would be loth to think he meant "Ironic satire sidelong sklented On my poor pursie."--BURNS. For my part, with reference to my friends northward, I must confess that I am not romance-bit about _Nature_. The earth, and sea, and sky (when all is said) is but as a house to dwell in. If the inmates be courteous, and good liquors flow like the conduits at an old coronation; if they can talk sensibly and feel properly; I have no need to stand staring upon the gilded looking-glass (that strained my friend's purse-strings in the purchase), nor his five-shilling print over the mantelpiece of old Nabbs the carrier (which only betrays his false taste). Just as important to me (in a sense) is all the furniture of my world-- eye-pampering, but satisfies no heart. Streets, streets, streets, markets, theatres, churches, Covent Gardens, shops sparkling with pretty faces of industrious milliners, neat sempstresses, ladies cheapening, gentlemen behind counters lying, authors in the street with spectacles, George Dyers (you may know them by their gait), lamps lit at night, pastry-cooks' and silver-smiths' shops, beautiful Quakers of Pentonville, noise of coaches, drowsy cry of mechanic watchman at night, with bucks reeling home drunk; if you happen to wake at midnight, cries of Fire and Stop thief; inns of court, with their learned air, and halls, and butteries, just like Cambridge colleges; old book-stalls, Jeremy Taylors, Burtons on Melancholy, and Religio Medicis on every stall. These are thy pleasures, O London with-the-many-sins. O City abounding in whores, for these may Keswick and her giant brood go hang! C. L. [Charles Lloyd had just settled at Old Brathay, about three miles from Ambleside. Manning's reply to this letter indicates that Lamb's story of the invitation to stay with Lloyd was a hoax. The first page, ended where I have put the *asterisk--as in the letter, to Gutch. Manning writes: "N.B. Your lake story completely took me in till I got to the 2d page. I was pleased to think you were so rich, but I confess rather wondered how you should be able conveniently to take so long a journey this inside-fare time of the year." Manning also says: "I condole, with you, Mr. Lamb, on the tragic fate of your tragedie--I wonder what fool it was that read it! By the bye, you would do me a very very great favour by letting me have a copy. If Beggars might be chusers, I should ask to have it transcribed partly by you and partly by your sister. I have a desire to possess some of Mary's handwriting" (see Letter 79). "Beautiful Quakers of Pentonville." This is almost certainly a reference to Hester Savory, the original of Lamb's poem "Hester." The whole passage is the first of three eulogies of London in the letters, all very similar. To "The Londoner" we come later.] LETTER 72 CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM GODWIN [Dec. 4, 1800.] Dear Sir,--I send this speedily after the heels of Cooper (O! the dainty expression) to say that Mary is obliged to stay at home on Sunday to receive a female friend, from whom I am equally glad to escape. So that we shall be by ourselves. I write, because it may make _some_ difference in your marketting, &c. C. L. Thursday Morning. I am sorry to put you to the expense of twopence postage. But I calculate thus: if Mary comes she will eat Beef 2 plates, 4d. _Batter Pudding_ 1 do. 2d. Beer, a pint, 2d. Wine, 3 glasses, 11d. I drink no wine! Chesnuts, after dinner, 2d. Tea and supper at moderate calculation, 9d. --------- 2s. 6d. From which deduct 2d. postage ---------- 2s. 4d. You are a clear gainer by her not coming. [If the date be correct this becomes the first extant letter proper which Lamb sent to the author of _Political Justice_. Godwin was then forty-four years old, and had long been busy upon his tragedy "Antonio," in which Lamb had been assisting with suggestions. In this connection I place here the following document, which belongs, however, naturally to an earlier date, but is not harmed by its present position.] LETTER 73 CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM GODWIN [No date. Autumn, 1800.] Queries. Whether the best conclusion would not be a solemn judicial pleading, appointed by the king, before himself in person of Antonio as proxy for Roderigo, and Guzman for himself--the form and ordering of it to be highly solemn and grand. For this purpose, (allowing it,) the king must be reserved, and not have committed his royal dignity by descending to previous conference with Antonio, but must refer from the beginning to this settlement. He must sit in dignity as a high royal arbiter. Whether this would admit of spiritual interpositions, cardinals &c.--appeals to the Pope, and haughty rejection of his interposition by Antonio--(this merely by the way). The pleadings must be conducted by short speeches--replies, taunts, and bitter recriminations by Antonio, in his rough style. In the midst of the undecided cause, may not a messenger break up the proceedings by an account of Roderigo's death (no improbable or far-fetch'd event), and the whole conclude with an affecting and awful invocation of Antonio upon Roderigo's spirit, now no longer dependent upon earthly tribunals or a froward woman's will, &c., &c. Almanza's daughter is now free, &c. This might be made _very affecting_. Better nothing follow after; if anything, she must step forward and resolve to take the veil. In this case, the whole story of the former nunnery _must_ be omitted. But, I think, better leave the final conclusion to the imagination of the spectator. Probably the violence of confining her in a convent is not necessary; Antonio's own castle would be sufficient. To relieve the former part of the Play, could not some sensible images, some work for the Eye, be introduced? A gallery of Pictures, Almanza's ancestors, to which Antonio might affectingly point his sister, one by one, with anecdote, &c. At all events, with the present want of action, the Play must not extend above four Acts, unless it is quite new modell'd. The proposed alterations might all be effected in a few weeks. Solemn judicial pleadings always go off well, as in Henry the 8th, Merchant of Venice, and perhaps Othello. [Lamb, said Mr. Paul, writing of this critical Minute, was so genuinely kind and even affectionate, in his criticism that Godwin did not perceive his real disapproval. Mr Swinburne, writing in _The Athenaeum_ for May 13, 1876, made an interesting comment upon one of Lamb's suggestions in the foregoing document. It contains, he remarks, "a singular anticipation of one of the most famous passages in the work of the greatest master of our own age, the scene of the portraits in 'Hernani:' 'To relieve the former part of the play, could not some sensible images, some work for the eye, be introduced? _A gallery of pictures, Alexander's ancestors, to which Antonio might affectingly point his sister, one by one, with anecdote_, &c.' I know of no coincidence more pleasantly and strangely notable than this between the gentle genius of the loveliest among English essayists and the tragic invention of the loftiest among French poets." After long negotiation "Antonio" was now actually in rehearsal at Drury Lane, to be produced on December 13. Lamb supplied the epilogue. Cooper was Godwin's servant.] LETTER 74 CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM GODWIN Dec. 10th, 1800. Wednesday Morning. Dear Sir,--I expected a good deal of pleasure from your company to-morrow, but I am sorry I must beg of you to excuse me. I have been confined ever since I saw you with one of the severest colds I ever experienced, occasioned by being in the night air on Sunday, and on the following day, very foolishly. I am neither in health nor spirits to meet company. I hope and trust I shall get out on Saturday night. You will add to your many favours, by transmitting to me as early as possible as many tickets as conveniently you can spare,--Yours truly, C. L. I have been plotting how to abridge the Epilogue. But I cannot see that any lines can be spared, retaining the connection, except these two, which are better out. "Why should I instance, &c., The sick man's purpose, &c.," and then the following line must run thus, "The truth by an example best is shown." Excuse this _important_ postscript. LETTER 75 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [P.M. Dec. 13, 1800.] Don't spill the cream upon this letter. I have received your letter _this moment_, not having been at the office. I have just time to scribble down the epilogue. To your epistle I will just reply, that I will certainly come to Cambridge before January is out: I'll come _when I can_. You shall have an amended copy of my play early next week. Mary thanks you; but her handwriting is too feminine to be exposed to a Cambridge gentleman, though I endeavour to persuade her that you understand algebra, and must understand her hand. The play is the man's you wot of; but for God's sake (who would not like to have so pious a _professor's_ work _damn'd_) do not mention it--it is to come out in a feigned name, as one Tobin's. I will omit the introductory lines which connect it with the play, and give you the concluding tale, which is the mass and bulk of the epilogue. The _name_ is _Jack_ INCIDENT. It is about promise-breaking--you will see it all, if you read the _papers_. Jack, of dramatic genius justly vain, Purchased a renter's share at Drury-lane; A prudent man in every other matter, Known at his club-room for an honest hatter; Humane and courteous, led a civil life, And has been seldom known to beat his wife; But Jack is now grown quite another man, Frequents the green-room, knows the plot and plan Of each new piece, And has been seen to talk with Sheridan! In at the play-house just at six he pops, And never quits it till the curtain drops, Is never absent on the _author's night_, Knows actresses and actors too--by sight; So humble, that with Suett he'll confer, Or take a pipe with plain Jack Bannister; Nay, with an author has been known so free, He once suggested a catastrophe-- In short, John dabbled till his head was turn'd; His wife remonstrated, his neighbours mourn'd, His customers were dropping off apace, And Jack's affairs began to wear a piteous face. One night his wife began a curtain lecture; "My dearest Johnny, husband, spouse, protector, Take pity on your helpless babes and me, Save us from ruin, you from bankruptcy-- Look to your business, leave these cursed plays, And try again your old industrious ways." Jack who was always scared at the Gazette, And had some bits of skull uninjured yet, Promised amendment, vow'd his wife spake reason, "He would not see another play that season--" Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept, Was late and early in his shop, eat, slept, And walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men; No _wit_, but John the hatter once again-- Visits his club: when lo! one _fatal night_ His wife with horror view'd the well-known sight-- John's _hat, wig, snuff-box_--well she knew his tricks-- And Jack decamping at the hour of six, Just at the counter's edge a playbill lay, Announcing that "Pizarro" was the play-- "O Johnny, Johnny, this is your old doing." Quoth Jack, "Why what the devil storm's a-brewing? About a harmless play why all this fright? I'll go and see it if it's but for spite-- Zounds, woman! Nelson's[1] to be there to-night." _N.B_.--This was intended for Jack Bannister to speak; but the sage managers have chosen Miss _Heard_,--except Miss Tidswell, the worst actress ever seen or _heard_. Now, I remember I have promised the loan of my play. I will lend it _instantly_, and you shall get it ('pon honour!) by this day week. I must go and dress for the boxes! First night! Finding I have time, I transcribe the rest. Observe, you have read the last first; it begins thus:--the names I took from a little outline G. gave me. I have not read the play. "Ladies, ye've seen how Guzman's consort died, Poor victim of a Spaniard brother's pride, When Spanish honour through the world was blown, And Spanish beauty for the best was known[2] In that romantic, unenlighten'd time, A _breach of promise_[3] was a sort of crime-- Which of you handsome English ladies here, But deems the penance bloody and severe? A whimsical old Saragossa[4] fashion, That a dead father's dying inclination, Should _live_ to thwart a living daughter's passion,[5] Unjustly on the sex _we_[6] men exclaim, Rail at _your_[7] vices,--and commit the same;-- Man is a promise-breaker from the womb, And goes a promise-breaker to the tomb-- What need we instance here the lover's vow, The sick man's purpose, or the great man's bow?[8] The truth by few examples best is shown-- Instead of many which are better known, Take poor Jack Incident, that's dead and gone. Jack," &c. &c. &c. Now you have it all-how do you like it? I am going to hear it recited!!! C. L. [Footnote 1: A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or three times at both theatres--and advertised himself.] [Footnote 2: Four _easy_ lines.] [Footnote 3: For which the _heroine died_.] [Footnote 4: In _Spain!!?] [Footnote 5: Two _neat_ lines.] [Footnote 6: Or _you_.] [Footnote 7: Or _our_, as _they_ have altered it.] [Footnote 8: Antithesis.] ["As one Tobin's." The rehearsals of "Antonio" were attended by Godwin's friend, John Tobin, subsequently author of "The Honeymoon," in the hope, on account of Godwin's reputation for heterodoxy, of deceiving people as to the real authorship of the play. It was, however, avowed by Godwin on the title-page. Jack Bannister, the comedian, was a favourite actor of Lamb's. See the _Elia_ essay "On some of the Old Actors." Miss Heard was a daughter of William Heard, the author of "The Snuff-Box," a feeble comedy. Miss Tidswell, by the irony of fate, had a part in Lamb's own play, "Mr. H.," six years later. "I have not read the play." Meaning probably, "I have not read it in its final form." Lamb must have read it in earlier versions. I quote Mr. Kegan Paul's summary of the plot of "Antonio":-- "Helena was betrothed, with her father's consent, to her brother Antonio's friend, Roderigo. While Antonio and Roderigo were at the wars, Helena fell in love with, and married, Don Gusman. She was the king's ward, who set aside the pre-contract. Antonio, returning, leaves his friend behind; he has had great sorrows, but all will be well when he comes to claim his bride. When Antonio finds his sister is married, the rage he exhibits is ferocious. He carries his sister off from her husband's house, and demands that the king shall annul the marriage with Gusman. There is then talk of Helena's entrance into a convent. At last the king, losing patience, gives judgment, as he had done before, that the pre-contract with Roderigo was invalid, and the marriage to Gusman valid. Whereupon Antonio bursts through the guards, and kills his sister."] LETTER 76 CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM GODWIN Dec. 14, 1800. Late o' Sunday. Dear Sir,--I have performed my office in a slovenly way, but judge for me. I sat down at 6 o'clock, and never left reading (and I read out to Mary) your play till 10. In this sitting I noted down lines as they occurred, exactly as you will read my rough paper. Do not be frightened at the bulk of my remarks, for they are almost all upon single lines, which, put together, do not amount to a hundred, and many of them merely verbal. I had but one object in view, abridgement for compression sake. I have used a dogmatical language (which is truly ludicrous when the trivial nature of my remarks is considered), and, remember, my office was to hunt out faults. You may fairly abridge one half of them, as a fair deduction for the infirmities of Error, and a single reading, which leaves only fifty objections, most of them merely against words, on no short play. Remember, you constituted me Executioner, and a hangman has been seldom seen to be ashamed of his profession before Master Sheriff. We'll talk of the Beauties (of which I am more than ever sure) when we meet,--Yours truly, C. L. I will barely add, as you are on the very point of printing, that in my opinion neither prologue nor epilogue should accompany the play. It can only serve to remind your readers of its fate. _Both_ suppose an audience, and, that jest being gone, must convert into burlesque. Nor would I (but therein custom and decorum must be a law) print the actors' names. Some things must be kept out of sight. I have done, and I have but a few square inches of paper to fill up. I am emboldened by a little jorum of punch (vastly good) to say that next to _one man_, I am the most hurt at our ill success. The breast of Hecuba, where she did suckle Hector, looked not to be more lovely than Marshal's forehead when it spit forth sweat, at Critic-swords contending. I remember two honest lines by Marvel, (whose poems by the way I am just going to possess) "Where every Mower's wholesome heat Smells like an Alexander's sweat." ["Antonio" was performed on December 13, with John Philip Kemble in the title-role, and was a complete failure. Lamb wrote an account of the unlucky evening many years later in the "Old Actors" series in the _London Magazine_ (see Vol. II. of the present edition). He speaks there, as here, of Marshal's forehead--Marshal being John Marshall, a friend of the Godwins. After the play Godwin supped with Lamb, when it was decided to publish "Antonio" at once. Lamb retained the MS. for criticism. The present letter in the original contains his comments, the only one of which that Mr. Kegan Paul thought worth reproducing being the following:-- "'Enviable' is a very bad word. I allude to 'Enviable right to bless us.' For instance, Burns, comparing the ills of manhood with the state of infancy, says, 'Oh! enviable early days;' here 'tis good, because the passion lay in comparison. Excuse my insulting your judgment with an illustration. I believe I only wanted to beg in the name of a favourite Bardie, or at most to confirm my own judgment." Lamb, it will be remembered, had refused to let Coleridge use "enviable" in "Lewti." Burns's poem to which Lamb alludes is "Despondency, an Ode," Stanza 5, "Oh! enviable, early days." Godwin's play was published in 1801 without Lamb's epilogue.] LETTER 77 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING Dec. 16th, 1800. We are damn'd! Not the facetious epilogue could save us. For, as the editor of the "Morning Post," quick-sighted gentleman! hath this morning truly observed, (I beg pardon if I falsify his _words_, their profound _sense_ I am sure I retain,) both prologue and epilogue were worthy of accompanying such a piece; and indeed (mark the profundity, Mister Manning) were received with proper indignation by such of the audience only as thought either worth attending to. PROFESSOR, thy glories wax dim! Again, the incomparable author of the "True Briton" declareth in _his_ paper (bearing same date) that the epilogue was an indifferent attempt at humour and character, and failed in both. I forbear to mention the other papers, because I have not read them. O PROFESSOR, how different thy feelings now (_quantum mutatus ab illo professore, qui in agris philosophiae tantas victorias aquisivisti_),--how different thy proud feelings but one little week ago,--thy anticipation of thy nine nights,--those visionary claps, which have soothed thy soul by day and thy dreams by night! Calling in accidentally on the Professor while he was out, I was ushered into the study; and my nose quickly (most sagacious always) pointed me to four tokens lying loose upon thy table, Professor, which indicated thy violent and satanical pride of heart. Imprimis, there caught mine eye a list of six persons, thy friends, whom thou didst meditate inviting to a sumptuous dinner on the Thursday, anticipating the profits of thy Saturday's play to answer charges; I was in the honoured file! Next, a stronger evidence of thy violent and almost satanical pride, lay a list of all the morning papers (from the "Morning Chronicle" downwards to the "Porcupine,") with the places of their respective offices, where thou wast meditating to insert, and didst insert, an elaborate sketch of the story of thy play--stones in thy enemy's hand to bruise thee with; and severely wast thou bruised, O Professor! nor do I know what oil to pour into thy wounds. Next, which convinced me to a dead conviction of thy pride, violent and almost satanical pride--lay a list of books, which thy un-tragedy-favoured pocket could never answer; Dodsley's Old Plays, Malone's Shakspeare (still harping upon thy play, thy philosophy abandoned meanwhile to Christians and superstitious minds); nay, I believe (if I can believe my memory), that the ambitious Encyclopaedia itself was part of thy meditated acquisitions; but many a playbook was there. All these visions are _damned_; and thou, Professor, must read Shakspere in future out of a common edition; and, hark ye, pray read him to a little better purpose! Last and strongest against thee (in colours manifest as the hand upon Belshazzar's wall), lay a volume of poems by C. Lloyd and C. Lamb. Thy heart misgave thee, that thy assistant might possibly not have talent enough to furnish thee an epilogue! Manning, all these things came over my mind; all the gratulations that would have thickened upon him, and even some have glanced aside upon his humble friend; the vanity, and the fame, and the profits (the Professor is L500 ideal money out of pocket by this failure, besides L200 he would have got for the copyright, and the Professor is never much beforehand with the world; what he gets is all by the sweat of his brow and dint of brain, for the Professor, though a sure man, is also a slow); and now to muse upon thy altered physiognomy, thy pale and squalid appearance (a kind of _blue sickness_ about the eyelids), and thy crest fallen, and thy proud demand of L200 from thy bookseller changed to an uncertainty of his taking it at all, or giving thee full L50. The Professor has won my heart by this _his_ mournful catastrophe. You remember Marshall, who dined with him at my house; I met him in the lobby immediately after the damnation of the Professor's play, and he looked to me like an angel: his face was lengthened, and ALL OVER SWEAT; I never saw such a care-fraught visage; I could have hugged him, I loved him so intensely--"From every pore of him a perfume fell." I have seen that man in many situations, and from my soul I think that a more god-like honest soul exists not in this world. The Professor's poor nerves trembling with the recent shock, he hurried him away to my house to supper; and there we comforted him as well as we could. He came to consult me about a change of catastrophe; but alas! the piece was condemned long before that crisis. I at first humoured him with a specious proposition, but have since joined his true friends in advising him to give it up. He did it with a pang, and is to print it as _his_. L. [The Professor was Lamb's name for Godwin. The _Porcupine_ was Cobbett's paper.] LETTERS 78 AND 79 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING [Middle December.] I send you all of Coleridge's letters to me, which I have preserved: some of them are upon the subject of my play. I also send you Kemble's two letters, and the prompter's courteous epistle, with a curious critique on "Pride's Cure," by a young physician from EDINBRO, who modestly suggests quite another kind of a plot. These are monuments of my disappointment which I like to preserve. In Coleridge's letters you will find a good deal of amusement, to see genuine talent struggling against a pompous display of it. I also send you the Professor's letter to me (careful Professor! to conceal his _name_ even from his correspondent), ere yet the Professor's pride was cured. Oh monstrous and almost satanical pride! You will carefully keep all (except the Scotch Doctor's, _which burn in status quo_), till I come to claim mine own. C. LAMB. For Mister Manning, Teacher of Mathematics and the Black Arts. There is another letter in the inside cover of the book opposite the blank leaf that _was_. Mind this goes for a letter. (Acknowledge it _directly_, if only in ten words.) DEAR MANNING--(I shall want to hear this comes safe.) I have scratched out a good deal, as you will see. Generally, what I have rejected was either false in feeling, or a violation of character--mostly of the first sort. I will here just instance in the concluding few lines of the "Dying Lover's Story," which completely contradicted his character of _silent_ and _unreproachful_. I hesitated a good deal what copy to send you, and at last resolved to send the worst, because you are familiar with it, and can make it out; and a stranger would find so much difficulty in doing it, that it would give him more pain than pleasure. This is compounded precisely of the two persons' hands you requested it should be.--Yours sincerely, C. LAMB. [These were the letters accompanying the copy of "Pride's Cure" (or "John Woodvil") which Charles and Mary Lamb together made for Manning, as requested in the note on page 197. All the letters mentioned by Lamb have vanished; unless by an unlikely chance the bundle contained Coleridge's letters on Mrs. Lamb's death and on the quarrel with Lamb and Lloyd. Manning's reply, dated December, 1800, gives a little information concerning the Edinburgh physician's letter--"that gentleman whose fertile brain can, at a moment's warning, furnish you with 10 Thousand models of a plot--'The greatest variety of Rapes, Murders, Deathsheads, &c., &c., sold here.'" Manning thinks that the Scotch doctor understands Lamb's tragedy better than Coleridge does. He adds: "P.S.--My verdict upon the Poet's epitaph is 'genuine.'" This probably applies to a question asked by Lamb concerning Wordsworth's poem of that name.] LETTER 80 CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS MANNING December 27th, 1800. At length George Dyer's phrenesis has come to a crisis; he is raging and furiously mad. I waited upon the heathen, Thursday was a se'nnight; the first symptom which struck my eye and gave me incontrovertible proof of the fatal truth was a pair of nankeen pantaloons four times too big for him, which the said Heathen did pertinaciously affirm to be new. They were absolutely ingrained with the accumulated dirt of ages; but he affirmed them to be clean. He was going to visit a lady that was nice about those things, and that's the reason he wore nankeen that day. And then he danced, and capered, and fidgeted, and pulled up his pantaloons, and hugged his intolerable flannel vestment closer about his poetic loins; anon he gave it loose to the zephyrs which plentifully insinuate their tiny bodies through every crevice, door, window or wainscot, expressly formed for the exclusion of such impertinents. Then he caught at a proof sheet, and catched up a laundress's bill instead--made a dart at Blomfield's Poems, and threw them in agony aside. I could not bring him to one direct reply; he could not maintain his jumping mind in a right line for the tithe of a moment by Clifford's Inn clock. He must go to the printer's immediately--the most unlucky accident--he had struck off five hundred impressions of his Poems, which were ready for delivery to subscribers, and the Preface must all be expunged. There were eighty pages of Preface, and not till that morning had he discovered that in the very first page of said Preface he had set out with a principle of Criticism fundamentally-wrong, which vitiated all his following reasoning. The Preface must be expunged, although it cost him L30--the lowest calculation, taking in paper and printing! In vain have his real friends remonstrated against this Midsummer madness. George is as obstinate as a Primitive Christian--and wards and parries off all our thrusts with one unanswerable fence;--"Sir, it's of great consequence that the _world_ is not _misled_!" As for the other Professor, he has actually begun to dive into Tavernier and Chardin's _Persian_ Travels for a story, to form a new drama for the sweet tooth of this fastidious age. Hath not Bethlehem College a fair action for non-residence against such professors? Are poets so _few_ in _this age_, that he must write poetry? Is _morals_ a subject so exhausted, that he must quit that line? Is the metaphysic well (without a bottom) drained dry? If I can guess at the wicked pride of the Professor's heart, I would take a shrewd wager that he disdains ever again to dip his pen in _Prose_. Adieu, ye splendid theories! Farewell, dreams of political justice! Lawsuits, where I was counsel for Archbishop Fenelon _versus_ my own mother, in the famous fire cause! Vanish from my mind, professors, one and all! I have metal more attractive on foot. Man of many snipes, I will sup with thee, Deo volente et diabolo nolente, on Monday night the 5th of January, in the new year, and crush a cup to the infant century. A word or two of my progress. Embark at six o'clock in the morning, with a fresh gale, on a Cambridge one-decker; very cold till eight at night; land at St. Mary's light-house, muffins and coffee upon table (or any other curious production of Turkey or both Indies), snipes exactly at nine, punch to commence at ten, with _argument_; difference of opinion is expected to take place about eleven; perfect unanimity, with some haziness and dimness, before twelve.--N.B. My single affection is not so singly wedded to snipes; but the curious and epicurean eye would also take a pleasure in beholding a delicate and well-chosen assortment of teals, ortolans, the unctuous and palate-soothing flesh of geese wild and tame, nightingales' brains, the sensorium of a young sucking-pig, or any other Christmas dish, which I leave to the judgment of you and the cook of Gonville. C. LAMB. [Lamb's copy of George Dyer's _Poems_ is in the British Museum. It has the original withdrawn 1800 title-page and the cancelled preface bound up with it, and Lamb has written against the reference to the sacrifice, in the new 1801 preface: "One copy of this cancelled preface, snatch'd out of the fire, is prefaced to this volume." See Letter 93, page 234. It runs to sixty-five pages, whereas the new one is but a few words. Southey tells Grosvenor Bedford in one of his letters that Lamb gave Dyer the title of Cancellarius Magnus. Dyer reprinted in the 1802 edition of his Poems the greater part of the cancelled preface and all of the first page--so that it is difficult to say what the fallacy was. The original edition of his _Poems_, was to be in three large volumes. In 1802 it had come down to two small ones. Godwin's Persian drama was "Abbas, King of Persia," but he could not get it acted. The reference to Fenelon is to Godwin's _Political Justice_ (first edition, Vol. I., page 84) where he argues on the comparative worth of the persons of Fenelon, a chambermaid, and Godwin's mother, supposing them to have been present at the famous fire at Cambrai and only one of them to be saved. (As a matter of fact Fenelon was not at the fire.) We must suppose that Lamb carried out his intention of visiting Manning on January 5; but there is no confirmation.] LETTER 81 CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH [P.M. January 30, 1801.] Thanks for your Letter and Present. I had already borrowed your second volume. What most please me are, the Song of Lucy.... _Simon's sickly daughter_ in the Sexton made me _cry_. Next to these are the description of the continuous Echoes in the story of Joanna's laugh, where the mountains and all the scenery absolutely seem alive--and that fine Shakesperian character of the Happy Man, in the Brothers, --that creeps about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, _until the Setting Sun_ Write Fool upon his forehead. I will mention one more: the delicate and curious feeling in the wish for the Cumberland Beggar, that he may have about him the melody of Birds, altho' he hear them not. Here the mind knowingly passes a fiction upon herself, first substituting her own feelings for the Beggar's, and, in the same breath detecting the fallacy, will not part with the wish.--The Poet's Epitaph is disfigured, to my taste by the vulgar satire upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of pin point in the 6th stanza. All the rest is eminently good, and your own. I will just add that it appears to me a fault in the Beggar, that the instructions conveyed in it are too direct and like a lecture: they don't slide into the mind of the reader, while he is imagining no such matter. An intelligent reader finds a sort of insult in being told, I will teach you how to think upon this subject. This fault, if I am right, is in a ten-thousandth worse degree to be found in Sterne and many many novelists & modern poets, who continually put a sign post up to shew where you are to feel. They set out with assuming their readers to be stupid. Very different from Robinson Crusoe, the Vicar of Wakefield, Roderick Random, and other beautiful bare narratives. There is implied an unwritten compact between Author and reader; I will tell you a story, and I suppose you will understand it. Modern novels "St. Leons" and the like are full of such flowers as these "Let not my reader suppose," "Imagine, _if you can_"--modest!--&c.--I will here have done with praise and blame. I have written so much, only that you may not think I have passed over your book without observation,--I am sorry that Coleridge has christened his Ancient Marinere "a poet's Reverie"--it is as bad as Bottom the Weaver's declaration that he is not a Lion but only the scenical representation of a Lion. What new idea is gained by this Title, but one subversive of all credit, which the tale should force upon us, of its truth? For me, I was never so affected with any human Tale. After first reading it, I was totally possessed with it for many days--I dislike all the miraculous part of it, but the feelings of the man under the operation of such scenery dragged me along like Tom Piper's magic whistle. I totally differ from your idea that the Marinere should have had a character and profession. This is a Beauty in Gulliver's Travels, where the mind is kept in a placid state of little wonderments; but the Ancient Marinere undergoes such Trials, as overwhelm and bury all individuality or memory of what he was, like the state of a man in a Bad dream, one terrible peculiarity of which is: that all consciousness of personality is gone. Your other observation is I think as well a little unfounded: the Marinere from being conversant in supernatural events _has_ acquired a supernatural and strange cast of _phrase_, eye, appearance, &c. which frighten the wedding guest. You will excuse my remarks, because I am hurt and vexed that you should think it necessary, with a prose apology, to open the eyes of dead men that cannot see. To sum up a general opinion of the second vol.--I do not feel any one poem in it so forcibly as the Ancient Marinere, the Mad Mother, and the Lines at Tintern Abbey in the first.--I could, too, have wished the Critical preface had appeared in a separate treatise. All its dogmas are true and just, and most of them new, _as_ criticism. But they associate a _diminishing_ idea with the Poems which follow, as having been written for _Experiment_ on the public taste, more than having sprung (as they must have done) from living and daily circumstances.--I am prolix, because I am gratifyed in the opportunity of writing to you, and I don't well know when to leave off. I ought before this to have reply'd to your very kind invitation into Cumberland. With you and your Sister I could gang any where. But I am afraid whether I shall ever be able to afford so desperate a Journey. Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see a mountain in my life. I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments, as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature. The Lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet Street, the innumerable trades, tradesmen and customers, coaches, waggons, playhouses, all the bustle and wickedness round about Covent Garden, the very women of the Town, the Watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles,--life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night, the impossibility of being dull in Fleet Street, the crowds, the very dirt & mud, the Sun shining upon houses and pavements, the print shops, the old book stalls, parsons cheap'ning books, coffee houses, steams of soups from kitchens, the pantomimes, London itself a pantomime and a masquerade,--all these things work themselves into my mind and feed me, without a power of satiating me. The wonder of these sights impells me into night-walks about her crowded streets, and I often shed tears in the motley Strand from fulness of joy at so much Life.--All these emotions must be strange to you. So are your rural emotions to me. But consider, what must I have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes?-- My attachments are all local, purely local. I have no passion (or have had none since I was in love, and then it was the spurious engendering of poetry & books) to groves and vallies. The rooms where I was born, the furniture which has been