the Editorship of the Morning Chronicle. Islington, possibly, you would not like; to The poem includes a lamentation over a me 'tis classical ground. Knightsbridge is a fantastical loss-that of a draught of the desirable situation for the air of the parks; Avon "which Shakespeare drank;" some- St. George's Fields is convenient for its conwhat strangely confounding the Avon of tiguity to the Bench. Choose! But are you Stratford with that of Bristol. It may be really coming to town? The hope of it has doubted whether Shakespeare knew the entirely disarmed my petty disappointment taste of the waves of one Avon more than of of its nettles, yet I rejoice so much on my the other, or whether Lamb would not have own account, that I fear I do not feel enough found more kindred with the world's poet pure satisfaction on yours. Why, surely, the in a glass of sack, than in the water of either joint editorship of the Chronicle must be stream. Coleridge must have enjoyed the very comfortable and secure living for a man. misplaced sentiment of his friend, for he was But should not you read French, or do you ? singularly destitute of sympathy with local and can you write with sufficient moderation, associations, which he regarded as interfering as 'tis called, when one suppresses the one with the pure and simple impression of great half of what one feels or could say on a subdeeds or thoughts; denied a special interest ject, to chime in the better with popular to the Pass of Thermopyla: and instead of lukewarmness? White's 'Letters' are near subscribing to purchase "Shakespeare's publication; could you review 'em or get 'em House," would scarcely have admitted the reviewed? Are you not connected with the peculiar sanctity of the spot which enshrines Critical Review? His frontispiece is a good his ashes. conceit-Sir John learning to dance to please Madam Page, in dress of doublet, &c., from the upper half, and modern pantaloons with shoes, &c., of the eighteenth century, from the lower half; and the whole work is full of goodly quips and rare fancies, 'all deftly masqued like hoar antiquity'-much superior to Dr. Kenrick's Falstaff's Wedding,' which you have seen. A sometimes laughs at superstition, and religion, and the like. A living fell vacant lately in the gift of the Hospital: White informed him that he stood a fair chance for it. He scrupled and scrupled about it, and at last, to use his own words, 'tampered' with Godwin to know whether the thing was honest or not. Godwin said nay to it, and A—— rejected the living! Could the blindest poor papist have bowed more servilely to his priest or casuist? Why sleep the Watchman's answers to that Godwin? I beg you will not delay to alter, if you mean to keep those last lines I sent you. Do that and read these for your pains :

TO SARA AND HER SAMUEL.
"Was it so hard a thing?-I did but ask
A fleeting holiday. One little week,
Or haply two, had bounded my request.

What, if the jaded steer, who all day long
Had borne the heat and labour of the plough,
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 banks
Of Avon, lucid stream, to taste the wave
Which Shakespeare drank, our British Helicon :
Or with mine eye intent on Redcliffe towers,
To muse in tears on that mysterious youth,
Cruelly slighted, who to London walls,
In evil hour, shaped his disastrous course.

Complaint begone; begone, unkind reproof:
Take up, my song, take up a merrier strain,
For yet again, and lo! from Avon's vales
Another minstrel' cometh ! Youth endear'd,
God and good angels guide thee on thy way,
And gentler fortunes wait the friends I love.

"C. L."

The letter accompanying these verses begins cheerfully thus:

"What can I do till you send word what priced and placed house you should like?

·

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 destined 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 light finger playing,
Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentle name,
The lady Muses' dearest darling child,
Elicited the deftest tunes yet heard

In hall or bower, taking the delicate ear
Of Sidney and his peerless Maiden Queen.

Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain,
Cowper, of England's Bards, the wisest and the
best.

1796.

"I have read your climax of praises in those three Reviews. These mighty spouters out of panegyric waters have, two of 'em, scattered their spray even upon me, and the waters are cooling and refreshing. Prosaically,

the Monthly reviewers have made indeed a large article of it, and done you justice. The Critical have, in their wisdom, selected not the very best specimens, and notice not, except as one name on the muster-roll, the 'Religious Musings.' I suspect Master Dyer to have been the writer of that article, as the substance of it was the very remarks and the very language he used to me one day. I fear you will not accord entirely with my sentiments of Cowper, as expressed above

would not save you in a court of justice.
But are you really coming to town? Cole-
ridge, a gentleman called in London lately
from Bristol, and inquired whether there
were any of the family of a Mr. Chambers
living: this Mr. Chambers, he said, had been
the making of a friend's fortune, who wished
to make some return for it. He went away
without seeing her. Now, a Mrs. Reynolds,
a very intimate friend of ours, whom you
have seen at our house, is the only daughter,
and all that survives, of Mr. Chambers; and
a very little supply would be of service to
her, for she married very unfortunately, and
has parted with her husband. Pray find out
this Mr. Pember (for that was the gentleman's
friend's name); he is an attorney, and lives
at Bristol. Find him out, and acquaint him
with the circumstances of the case, and offer
to be the medium of supply to Mrs. Reynolds,
if he chooses to make her a present. She is
very distressed circumstances. Mr. Pember,
Mr. Chambers lived in
attorney, Bristol.
the Temple; Mrs. Reynolds, his daughter,
was my schoolmistress, and is in the room at
this present writing. This last circumstance

in

not further to add. Our loves to Sara.

C. LAMB."

| (perhaps scarcely just); but the poor gentle-induced me to write so soon again. I have man has just recovered from his lunacies, and that begets pity, and pity love, and love admiration; and then it goes hard with Thursday. 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 (Bürger), in the third number, of scarce inferior merit; and (vastly below

CHAPTER II.

THE DEATH OF MRS. LAMB, AND MISS LAMB'S SUBSE-
QUENT CONDITION.

these) there are some happy specimens of LETTERS OF LAMB TO COLERIDGE, CHIEFLY RELATING TO English hexameters, in an imitation of Ossian, in the fifth number. For your Dactyls—I am sorry you are so sore about 'em-a very Sir Fretful! In good troth, the Dactyls are good Dactyls, but their measure is naught. Be not yourself' half anger, half agony,' if I pronounce your darling lines not to be the best you ever wrote in all your life—you have

written much.

"Have a care, good Master Poet, of the Statute de Contumelia. What do you mean by calling Madame Mara, harlot and naughty things?* The goodness of the verse

"I detest

These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,
Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast
In intricacies of laborious song."

Lines composed in a Concert Room, by S. T. C.

THE autumn of 1796 found Lamb engaged all the morning in task-work at the India House, and all the evening in attempting to amuse his father by playing cribbage; sometimes snatching a few minutes for his only pleasure, writing to Coleridge; while Miss

Lamb was worn down to a state of extreme

nervous misery, by attention to needlework by day, and to her mother by night, until the insanity, which had been manifested more than once, broke out into frenzy, which, on Thursday, 22nd of September, proved fatal to her mother. The following account of the proceedings on the inquest, copied from the "Times" of Monday, 26th September, 1796, supplies the details of this terrible calamity,

doubtless with accuracy, except that it would only give you the outlines:-My poor dear,

"The jury, of course, brought in their you if you come. verdict-Lunacy." * and all of us.

comfort to you, I know, to know that our little incident may serve to make you underprospects are somewhat brighter. My poor stand my way of managing my mind. Within dear, dearest sister, the unhappy and un- a day or two after the fatal one, we dressed conscious instrument of the Almighty's judg- for dinner a tongue which we had had salted ments on our house, is restored to her senses; for some weeks in the house. As I sat down, to a dreadful sense and recollection of what a feeling like remorse struck me; - this has past, awful to her mind and impressive tongue poor Mary got for me, and can I par(as it must be to the end of life), but tem- take of it now, when she is far away? A pered with religious resignation and the thought occurred and relieved me,—if I give reasonings of a sound judgment, which, in in to this way of feeling, there is not a chair, this early stage, knows how to distinguish a room, an object in our rooms, that will not between a deed committed in a transient fit awaken the keenest griefs; I must rise above of frenzy, and the terrible guilt of a mother's such weaknesses. I hope this was not want murder. I have seen her. I found her, this of true feeling. I did not let this carry me, morning, calm and serene; far, very very though, too far. On the very second day, far from an indecent forgetful serenity; she (I date from the day of horrors,) as is usual has a most affectionate and tender concern in such cases, there were a matter of twenty for what has happened. Indeed, from the people, I do think, supping in our room; beginning, frightful and hopeless as her dis- they prevailed on me to eat with them (for order seemed, I had confidence enough in her to eat I never refused). They were all making strength of mind and religious principle, to merry in the room! Some had come from look forward to a time when even she might friendship, some from busy curiosity, and recover tranquillity. God be praised, Cole- some from interest; I was going to partake ridge, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never with them; when my recollection came that once been otherwise than collected and calm; my poor dead mother was lying in the next even on the dreadful day, and in the midst room-the very next room;-a mother who, of the terrible scene, I preserved a tranquil- through life, wished nothing but her children's lity which bystanders may have construed welfare. Indignation, the rage of grief, someinto indifference a tranquillity not of thing like remorse, rushed upon my mind. despair. Is it folly or sin in me to say that In an agony of emotion I found my way it was a religious principle that most sup-mechanically to the adjoining room, and fell ported me? I allow much to other favour-on my knees by the side of her coffin, asking able 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 plaistered over, from a wound he had received from a daughter dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly, my mother a dead and murdered corpse in the next room-yet was I 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 endeavoured 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

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 three or four first days, and was as a brother to me, gave up every hour of his time, to the very hurting of his health and spirits, in constant attendance and humouring my poor father; talked with him, read to him, played at cribbage with him (for so short is the old man's recollection, that he was playing at cards, as though nothing had happened, while the coroner's inquest was sitting over the way!) Samuel wept tenderly when he went away, for his mother wrote him a very severe letter on his loitering so long in town,

-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 moneys in future myself, if I take charge of Daddy, which poor John has not even hinted a wish, at any future time even, to share with me. The lady at this madhouse assures me that I may dismiss immediately both doctor and apothecary, retaining occasionally a composing draught or so for a while; and there is a less expensive establishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself, for 501. or guineas a-year-the outside would be 60%.

and he was forced to go. Mr. Norris, of Christ's Hospital, has been as a father to me -Mrs. Norris as a mother; though we had few claims on them. A gentleman, brother to my 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 recovered, and as well as ever, and highly pleased at thoughts of going-and has generously given up the interest of her little money (which was formerly paid my father for her board) wholely and solely to my sister's use. Reckoning this, we have, Daddy and I, for our two selves and an old maidservant to look after him, when I am out, which will be necessary, 1707. or 1807. rather a-year, out of which we can spare 50l. or 607. 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-you know, by economy, how much more John will make speeches about it, but she shall not go into an hospital. The good lady of the madhouse, and her daughter, an elegant, sweet-behaved young lady, love her, and are taken with her amazingly; and I know from her own mouth she loves them, and longs to be with them as much. Poor thing, they say she was but the other morning saying, she knew she must go to Bethlem for life; that one of her brothers would have it so, but the other would wish it not, but be obliged to go with the stream; that she had often as she passed Bethlem thought it likely, 'here may be my fate to end my days,' conscious of a certain flightiness in her poor head oftentimes, and mindful of more than one severe illness of that nature before. A legacy of 100%, which my father will have at Christmas, and this 20. I mentioned before, with what is in the house, will much more than set us clear. If my father, an old servant-maid, and I, can't live, and live comfortably, on 1307. or 1207. 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,

it

even I shall be able to spare for her comforts. She will, I fancy, if she stays, make one of the family, rather than of the patients; and the old and young ladies I like exceedingly, and she loves dearly; and they, as the saying is, take to her very extraordinarily, if it is extraordinary that people who see my sister should love her. Of all the people I ever saw in the world, my poor sister was most and thoroughly devoid of the least tincture of selfishness. I will enlarge upon her qualities, poor dear, dearest soul, in a future letter, for my own comfort, for I understand her thoroughly; and, if I mistake not, in the most trying situation that a human being can be found in, she will be found (I speak not with sufficient humility, I fear, but humanly and foolishly speaking), she will be found, I trust, uniformly great and amiable. God keep her in her present mind, to whom be thanks and praise for all His dispensations to mankind! C. LAMB."

"These mentioned good fortunes and change of prospects had almost brought my mind over to the extreme, the very opposite to despair. I was in danger of making myself too happy. Your letter brought me back to a view of things which I had entertained