The Doctor, in his pursuits, joins agricultural calculate the precise date of his death, I would to poetical science, and has set George's write a novel on purpose to make George the brains mad about the old Scotch writers, hero. I could hit him off to a hair.* George Barbour, Douglas's Æneid, Blind Harry, &c. brought a Dr. A- to see me. The Doctor We returned home in a return postchaise is a very pleasant old man, a great genius for (having dined with the Doctor), and George agriculture, one that ties his breeches-knees kept wondering and wondering, for eight or with packthread, and boasts of having had nine turnpike miles, what was the name, and disappointments from ministers. The Doctor striving to recollect the name of a poet an- happened to mention an epic poem by one terior to Barbour. I begged to know what Wilkie, called the 'Epigoniad,' in which he was remaining of his works. 'There is no- assured us there is not one tolerable line from thing extant of his works, Sir, but by all beginning to end, but all the characters, accounts he seems to have been a fine incidents, &c., verbally copied from Homer. genius!' This fine genius, without anything George, who had been sitting quite inattento show for it, or any title beyond George's tive to the Doctor's criticism, no sooner heard courtesy, without even a name; and Barbour, the sound of Homer strike his pericranicks, and Douglas, and Blind Harry, now are the than up he gets, and declares he must see predominant sounds in George's pia mater, that poem immediately: where was it to be and their buzzings exclude politics, criticism, had? An epic poem of 8000 lines, and he and algebra-the late lords of that illustrious not hear of it! There must be some things lumber-room. Mark, he has never read any good in it, and it was necessary he should of these bucks, but is impatient till he reads see it, for he had touched pretty deeply upon them all at the Doctor's suggestion. Poor that subject in his criticisms on the Epic. Dyer! his friends should be careful what George has touched pretty deeply upon the sparks they let fall into such inflammable Lyric, I find; he has also prepared a dissermatter. tation 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 Shakspeare (whom he calls an original, but irregular, genius); but it was a good while ago; and he has dipped into Rowe and Otway, I suppose having found their names in 'Johnson's Lives' at full length; and upon this slender ground he has undertaken the task. He "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 never seemed even to have heard of Fletcher, rises at the sight! Ford, Marlowe, 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 and some others have imposed upon it, which is very goodnatured of him, and very necessary just now! Now I am touching so deeply upon poetry, can I forget that I have just This passage, thus far, is printed in the former volumes; the remainder was then suppressed (with other Mr. Dyer, lest they should give pain to that excellent passages now for the first time published) relating to person then living. received from D- a magnificent copy of on purpose to borrow one, supposing, rationhis Guinea Epic. Four-and-twenty Books to ally enough, I must say, that you had made read in the dog-days! I got as far as the me a present of one before this; the omission Mad Monk the first day, and fainted. Mr. of which I take to have proceeded only from D's genius strongly points him to the negligence; but it is a fault. I could lend Pastoral, but his inclinations divert him him no assistance. You must know he is perpetually from his calling. He imitates just now diverted from the pursuit of the Southey, as Rowe did Shakspeare, with his BELL LETTERS by a paradox, which he has 'Good morrow to ye; good master Lieu- heard his friend Frend,* (that learned matenant.' Instead of a man, a woman, a thematician) maintain, that the negative daughter, he constantly writes one a man, quantities of mathematicians were merc one a woman, one his daughter. Instead of nuga, things scarcely in rerum naturâ, and the king, the hero, he constantly writes, he smacking too much of mystery for gentlemen the king, he the hero; two flowers of rhetoric, of Mr. Frend's clear Unitarian capacity. palpably from the 'Joan.' But Mr. D- However, the dispute once set a-going, has soars a higher pitch: and when he is original, seized violently on George's pericranick; it is in a most original way indeed. His and it is necessary for his health that he terrific scenes are indefatigable. Serpents, should speedily come to a resolution of his asps, spiders, ghosts, dead bodies, staircases made of nothing, with adders' tongues for bannisters-Good Heaven! what a brain he must have. He puts as many plums in his pudding as my grandmother used to do; and then his emerging from Hell's horrors into light, and treading on pure flats of this earth-for twenty-three Books together! "C. L." The following letter, obviously written about the same time, pursues the same theme. There is some irritation in it; but even that is curious enough to prevent the excision of the reproduced passages :— TO MR. MANNING. "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, 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 manuscription in the blank leaf, running thus, 'FROM THE AUTHOR!' it might save his wits and restore the unhappy author to those studies of poetry and criticism, which are at present suspended, to the infinite regret of the whole literary world. N.B.-Dirty books, smeared leaves, and dogs' ears, will be rather a 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 ⚫ Mr. Frend, many years the Actuary of the Rock Insurance Office, in early life the champion of Unitarianism at Cambridge; the object of a great University's displeasure; in short, the "village Hampden" of the day. great deal of poetical fire in their lyric also! We take tea with that learned poet poetry; that Aristotle's rules are not to be and critic on Tuesday night, at half-past five, servilely followed, which George has shown in his neat library; the repast will be light to have imposed great shackles upon modern and Attic, with criticism. If thou couldst genius. His poems, I find, are to consist of contrive to wheel up thy dear carcase on two vols.-reasonable octavo; and a third the Monday, and after dining with us on book will exclusively contain criticisms, in tripe, calves' kidneys, or whatever else the which he asserts he has gone pretty deeply Cornucopia of St. Clare may be willing to into the laws of blank verse and rhyme- pour qut on the occasion, might we not epic poetry, dramatic and pastoral ditto- adjourn together to the Heathen's-thou with all which is to come out before Christmas. thy Black Backs, and I with some innocent But above all he has touched most deeply upon volume of the Bell Letters, Shenstone or the the Drama, comparing the English with the like: it would make him wash his old flannel modern German stage, their merits and gown (that has not been washed to my defects. Apprehending that his studies (not knowledge since it has been his-Oh the long to mention his turn, which I take to be time!) with tears of joy. Thou shouldst chiefly towards the lyrical poetry) hardly settle his scruples and unravel his cobwebs, qualified him for these disquisitions, I and sponge off the sad stuff that weighs upon modestly inquired what plays he had read? his dear wounded pia mater; thou shouldst I found by George's reply that he had read restore light to his eyes, and him to his Shakspeare, but that was a good while friends and the public; Parnassus should since he calls him a great but irregular shower her civic crowns upon thee for saving genius, which I think to be an original the wits of a citizen! I thought I saw a and just remark. (Beaumont and Fletcher, lucid interval in George the other night— Massinger, Ben Jonson, Shirley, Marlowe, he broke in upon my studies just at tea-time, 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." The "Algebra " arrived; and Lamb wrote the following invitation, in hope to bring the author and the presentee together. TO MR. MANNING. "1800. "George Dyer is an Archimedes, and an Archimagus, and a Tycho Brahé, and a Copernicus; and thou art the darling of the Nine, and midwife to their wandering babe and brought with him Dr. A—, an old gentleman who ties his breeches' knees with packthread, and boasts that he has been disappointed by ministers. The Doctor wanted to see 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 the 'Epigoniad ' by one Wilkie, an epic poem, in which there is not one tolerable good line all through, but every incident and speech borrowed from Homer. 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 works. 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 8000 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 moment by Clifford's Inn clock. He must a good large room, with two beds in it, in go to the printer's immediately-the most the handsomest of which thou shalt repose unlucky accident-he had struck off five a-nights, and dream of Spheroides. I hope hundred impressions of his Poems, which you will understand by the nonsense of this were ready for delivery to subscribers, and letter that I am not melancholy at the the Preface must all be expunged; there thoughts of thy coming: I thought it neces- were eighty pages of Preface, and not till sary to add this, because you love precision. that morning had he discovered that in the Take notice that our stay at Dyer's will not very first page of said Preface he had set out exceed eight o'clock, after which our pursuits with a principle of Criticism fundamentally will be our own. But indeed, I think a little wrong, which vitiated all his following recreation among the Bell Letters and poetry reasoning; the Preface must be expunged, 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." Manning could not come; and Dyer's subsequent symptoms are described in the following letter: TO MR. 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. although it cost him 301., 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 !' "I've often wished I lived in the Golden Age, before doubt, and propositions, and corollaries, got into the world. Now, as Joseph D, a Bard of Nature, sings, going up Malvern Hills. 'How steep! how painful the ascent; You must know that Joe is lame, so that he had some reason for so singing. These two lines, I assure you, are taken totidem literis from a very popular poem. Joe is also an Epic Poet as well as a Descriptive, and has written a tragedy, though both his drama "They were absolutely ingrained with the and epopoiea are strictly descriptive, and accumulated dirt of ages; but he affirmed chiefly of the Beauties of Nature, for Joe them to be clean. He was going to visit a thinks man with all his passions and frailties lady that was nice about those things, and not a proper subject of the Drama. Joe's that's the reason he wore nankeen that day. tragedy hath the following surpassing speech And then he danced, and capered, and in it. Some king is told that his enemy has fidgeted, and pulled up his pantaloons, and engaged twelve archers to come over in a 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 Bloomfield's Poems and threw them in agony aside. I could not bring him to one direct own verses has but a limited power over reply; he could not maintain his jumping you. There is a bound where his authority mind in a right line for the tithe of a ceases." boat from an enemy's country and way-lay "I will close my letter of simple inquiry with an epigram on Mackintosh, the Vindicia The following letter, written sometime in 1801, shows that Lamb had succeeded in obtaining occasional employment as a writer Gallice-man-who has got a place at lastone of the last I did for the Albion : 'Though thou'rt like Judas, an apostate black, "Yours, as ever, C. LAMB." of epigrams for newspapers, by which he added something to his slender income. The disparaging reference to Sir James Mackintosh must not be taken as expressive of Lamb's deliberate opinion of that distinguished person. Mackintosh, at this time, was in great disfavour, for his supposed apostasy from the principles of his youth, with Lamb's philosophic friends, whose minds were of temperament less capable than that of the author of the Vindicia Some sportive extravagance which, howGallica of being diverted from abstract ever inconsistent with Lamb's early sentitheories of liberty by the crimes and sufferings ments of reverent piety, was very far from which then attended the great attempt to reduce them to practice. Lamb, through life, utterly indifferent to politics, was always ready to take part with his friends, and probably scouted, with them, Mackintosh as a deserter. TO MR. MANNING. “ 1801. "Dear Manning,-I have forborne writing so long (and so have you for the matter of that), until I am almost ashamed either to write or to forbear any longer. But as your silence may proceed from some worse cause than neglect from illness, or some mishap which may have befallen you, I begin to be anxious. You may have been burnt out, or you may have married, or you may have broken a limb, or turned country parson; any of these would be excuse sufficient for not coming to my supper. I am not so unforgiving as the nobleman in Saint Mark. For me, nothing new has happened to me, unless that the poor Albion died last Saturday of the world's neglect, and with it the fountain of my puns is choked up for ever. "All the Lloyds wonder that you do not write to them. They apply to me for the cause. Relieve me from this weight of ignorance, and enable me to give a truly oracular response. indicating an irreligious purpose, seems to have given offence to Mr. Walter Wilson, and to have induced the following letter, illustrative of the writer's feelings at this time, on the most momentous of all subjects : TO MR. WALTER WILSON. "August 14th, 1801. "Dear Wilson,-I am extremely sorry that any serious difference should subsist between us, on account of some foolish behaviour of mine at Richmond; you knew me well enough before, that a very little liquor will cause a considerable alteration in me. "I beg you to impute my conduct solely to that, and not to any deliberate intention of offending you, from whom I have received so many friendly attentions. I know that you think a very important difference in opinion with respect to some more serious subjects between us makes me a dangerous companion; but do not rashly infer, from some slight and light expressions which I may have made use of in a moment of levity, in your presence, without sufficient regard to your feelings-do not conclude that I am an inveterate enemy to all religion. I have had a time of seriousness, and I have known the importance and reality of a religious "I have been confined some days with belief. Latterly, I acknowledge, much of swelled cheek and rheumatism-they divide and govern me with a viceroy-headache in the middle. I can neither write nor read without great pain. It must be something like obstinacy that I choose this time to write to you in after many months interruption. my seriousness has gone off, whether from new company, or some other new associations; but I still retain at bottom a conviction of the truth, and a certainty of the usefulness of religion. I will not pretend to more gravity or feeling than I at present possess; my intention is not to persuade |