the genial side of character; and, instead of For its matter I mean. I cannot say the disliking the rake in the critic, thought it style of it quite satisfies me. It is too pleasant to detect so much taste and good-lyrical. The auditors to whom it is feigned nature in a fashionable roué; and regarded to be told, do not arride me. I had rather all his vapid gaiety, which to severer observ- it had been told me, the reader, at once. ers looked like impertinence, as the playful 'Hartleap Well' is the tale for me; in effusion of a remarkably guileless nature. matter as good as this, in manner infinitely We lost sight of him when the career of the before it, in my poor judgment. Why did "London Magazine" ended; and Lamb did you not add 'The Waggoner'?-Have I not live to learn the sequel of his history. thanked you, though, yet, for 'Peter Bell'? I would not not have it for a good deal of money. C is very foolish to scribble In 1819, Mr. Wordsworth, encouraged by about books. Neither his tongue nor fingers the extending circle of his earnest admirers, are very retentive. But I shall not say anyannounced for publication his "Peter Bell" thing to him about it. He would only begin a -a poem written in the first enthusiasm of very long story with a very long face, and I his system, and exemplifying, amidst beauty see him far too seldom to teaze him with and pathos of the finest essence, some of its affairs of business or conscience when I do most startling peculiarities. Some wicked see him. He never comes near our house, jester, gifted with more ingenuity and bold- and when we go to see him he is generally ness than wit, anticipated the real "Simon writing, or thinking: he is writing in his Pure," by a false one, burlesquing some of study till the dinner comes, and that is the characteristics of the poet's homeliest scarce over before the stage summons us style. This grave hoax produced the follow-away. The mock 'P. B.' had only this effect ing letter from Lamb, appropriately written on me, that after twice reading it over in in alternate lines of red and black ink, till hopes to find something diverting in it, I the last sentence, in which the colours are reached your two books off the shelf, and alternated, word by word-even to the sig-set into a steady reading of them, till I had nature-and "Mary's love," at the close; so nearly finished both before I went to bed. that "Mary" is black, and her "love" red. The two of your last edition, of course, I mean. And in the morning I awoke determined to take down the Excursion.' I wish the scoundrel imitator could know this. But why waste a wish on him? I do not believe that paddling about with a stick in a pond, and fishing up a dead author, whom his intolerable wrongs had driven to that deed of desperation, would turn the heart of one of these obtuse literary BELLS. There is no Cock for such Peters ;-hang 'em! I am glad this aspiration came upon the red ink line. It is more of a bloody curse. I have delivered over your other presents to Alsager and G. D. A., I am sure, will value it, and be proud of the hand from which it came. To G. D. a poem is a poem. His own as good as anybody's, and, God bless him! anybody's as good as his own; for I do not think he has the most distant guess of the possibility of one poem being better than another. The gods, by denying him the very faculty itself of discrimination, have effectually cut off every seed of envy in his bosom. But with envy, they excided curiosity

TO MR. WORDSWORTH.

"1819.

"Dear Wordsworth, I received a copy of 'Peter Bell' a week ago, and I hope the author will not be offended if I say I do not much relish it. The humour, if it is meant for humour, is forced; and then the price! -sixpence would have been dear for it. Mind I do not mean your 'Peter Bell,' but a 'Peter Bell,' which preceded it about a week, and is in every bookseller's shop window in London, the type and paper nothing differing from the true one, the preface signed W. W., and the supplementary preface quoting as the author's words an extract from the supplementary preface to the Lyrical Ballads.' Is there no law against these rascals? I would have this Lambert Simnel whipt at the cart's tail. Who started the spurious 'P. B.' I have not heard. I should guess, one of the sneering

; but I have heard no name mentioned. 'Peter Bell' (not the mock one) is excellent.

also; and if you wish the copy again, which
you destined for him, I think I shall be able
to find it again for you, on his third shelf,
where he stuffs his presentation copies,
uncut, in shape and matter resembling a
lump of dry dust; but on carefully removing
that stratum, a thing like a pamphlet will
emerge. I have tried this with fifty different
poetical works that have been given G. D.
in return for as many of his own per-
formances, and I confess I never had any
scruple in taking my own again, wherever I
found it, shaking the adherences off-and by
this means one copy of 'my works' served
for G. D.—and, with a little dusting, was
made over to my good friend Dr. G,
who little thought whose leavings he was
taking when he made me that graceful bow.
By the way, the Doctor is the only one of
my acquaintance who bows gracefully, my
town acquaintance, I mean. How do you
like my way of writing with two inks? I
think it is pretty and motley. Suppose
Mrs. W. adopts it, the next time she holds
the pen for you. My dinner waits. I have
no time to indulge any longer in these I did not. So no more, till we meet.
laborious curiosities. God bless you, and
cause to thrive and burgeon whatsoever you
write, and fear no inks of miserable poet-
Yours truly,
"CHARLES LAMB.

closed. The dreary sea is filled up. He has
lately been at work 'telling again,' as they
call it, a most gratuitous piece of mischief,
and has caused a coolness betwixt me and a
(not friend exactly, but) intimate acquaint-
ance. I suspect also, he saps Manning's
faith in me, who am to Manning more than
an acquaintance. Still I like his writing
verses about you. Will your kind host and
hostess give us a dinner next Sunday, and
better still, not expect us if the weather
is very bad. Why you should refuse twenty
guineas per sheet for Blackwood's or any
other magazine passes my poor comprehen-
sion. But, as Strap says, 'you know best.'
I have no quarrel with you about præpran-
dial avocations, so don't imagine one. That
Manchester sonnet* I think very likely is
Capel Lofft's. Another sonnet appeared with
the same initials in the same paper, which
turned out to be P's. What do the
rascals mean? Am I to have the fathering
of what idle rhymes every beggarly poet-
aster pours forth! Who put your marine
sonnet about Browne' into 'Blackwood'?

asters.

"Mary's love."

The following letter, probably written about this time, is entirely in red ink.

TO MR. COLERIDGE.

"Dear Coleridge,-A letter written in the blood of your poor friend would indeed be of a nature to startle you; but this is nought but harmless red ink, or, as the witty mercantile phrase hath it, clerk's blood. Hang 'em! my brain, skin, flesh, bone, carcase, soul, time is all theirs. The Royal Exchange, Gresham's Folly, hath me body and spirit. I admire some of - -'s lines on you, and I admire your postponing reading them. He is a sad tattler, but this is under the rose. Twenty years ago he estranged one friend from me quite, whom I have been regretting, but never could regain since; he almost alienated you also from me, or me from you, I don't know which. But that breach is

"Ever yours,

C. L."

The following letter (of post-mark 1822) is addressed to Trinity College, Cambridge, when Miss Wordsworth was visiting her brother, Dr. Wordsworth.

TO MISS WORDSWORTH.

Mary perfectly approves of the appropriation of the feathers, and wishes them peacock's for your fair niece's sake.

M

"1822.

"Dear Miss Wordsworth,-I had just written the above endearing words when -tapped me on the shoulder with an invitation to cold goose pie, which I was not bird of that sort enough to decline. Mrs. M-, I am most happy to say, is better. Mary has been tormented with a rheumatism, which is leaving her. I am suffering from the festivities of the season. I wonder how my misused carcase holds it out. I have played the experimental philosopher

A sonnet in "Blackwood," dated Manchester, and signed C. L.

"C. L."

The following letter to Mr. Walter Wilson, who was composing a "Life of De Foe," in reply to inquiries on various points of the great novelist's history, is dated 24th Feb., 1823.

TO MR. WALTER WILSON.

on it, that's certain. Willy* shall be wel- so much better hands! Will Dr. W. accept come to a mince-pie, and a bout at com- of my respects at the end of a foolish letter? merce whenever he comes. He was in our eye. I am glad you liked my new year's speculations, everybody likes them, except the author of the 'Pleasures of Hope.' Disappointment attend him! How I like to be liked, and what I do to be liked! They flatter me in magazines, newspapers, and all the minor reviews; the Quarterlies hold aloof. But they must come into it in time, or their leaves be waste paper. Salute Trinity Library in my name. Two special things are worth seeing at Cambridge, a portrait of Cromwell, at Sydney, and a better of Dr. Harvey, (who found out that blood was red) at Dr. Davy's; you should see them. Coleridge is pretty well; I have not seen him, but hear often of him from Allsop, who sends me hares and pheasants twice a week; I can hardly take so fast as he gives. I have almost forgotten butcher's meat, as plebeian. Are you not glad the cold is gone? I find winters not so agreeable as they used to be 'when winter bleak had charms for me.' I cannot conjure up a kind similitude for those snowy flakes. Let them keep to twelfth cakes!

“Mrs. P——, our Cambridge friend, has been in town. You do not know the W- 's

"Dear W.,-I write that you may not think me neglectful, not that I have anything to say. In answer to your questions, it was at your house I saw an edition of 'Roxana,' the preface to which stated that the author had left out all that part of it which related to Roxana's daughter persisting in imagining herself to be so, in spite of the mother's denial, from certain hints she had picked up, and throwing herself continually in her mother's way (as Savage is said to have done in the way of his, prying in at windows to get a glimpse of her), and that it was by advice of Southern, who objected to the circumstances as being untrue, when the rest of the story was founded on fact; which shows S. to have been a stupid-ish fellow. The incidents so resemble Savage's story, that I taxed Godwin with taking Falkner from his life by Dr. Johnson. You should have the edition (if you have not parted with it), for I saw it never but at your place at the Mews' Gate, nor did I then read it to compare it with my own; only I know the daughter's curiosity is the best part of my

in Trumpington Street. They are capital people. Ask anybody you meet who is the biggest woman in Cambridge, and I'll hold you a wager they'll say Mrs. ; she broke down two benches in Trinity gardens, one on the confines of St. John's, which occasioned a litigation between the Societies as to re-Roxana.' The prologue you speak of was pairing it. In warm weather, she retires into an ice-cellar (literally !), and dates the returns of the years from a hot Thursday some twenty years back. She sits in a room with opposite doors and windows, to let in a thorough draught, which gives her slenderer friends tooth-aches. She is to be seen in the market every morning at ten cheapening fowls, which I observe the Cambridge poulterers are not sufficiently careful to stump.

"Having now answered most of the points contained in your letter, let me end with assuring you of our very best kindness, and excuse Mary for not handling the pen on this occasion, especially as it has fallen into

mine, and so named, but not worth much. You ask me for two or three pages of verse. I have not written so much since you knew me. I am altogether prosaic. May be I may touch off a sonnet in time. I do not prefer 'Colonel Jack' to either 'Robinson Crusoe' or 'Roxana.' I only spoke of the beginning of it, his childish history. The rest is poor. I do not know anywhere any good character of De Foe besides what you mention.* I do not know that Swift men

Those who wish to read an admirable character of De Foe, associated with the most valuable information

respecting his personal history, should revert to an article in the "Edinburgh Review" on De Foe, attributed to

the author of the "Lives of the Statesmen of the Com• Mr. Wordsworth's second son, then at the Charter-monwealth," and of the delightful “Biography of Oliver house.

Goldsmith," almost as charming as its subject.

tions him; Pope does. I forget if D'Israeli
has. Dunlop I think has nothing of him.
He is quite new ground, and scarce known
beyond 'Crusoe.' I do not know who wrote
'Quarl.' I never thought of 'Quarl' as
having an author. It is a poor imitation;
the monkey is the best in it, and his pretty
dishes made of shells. Do you know the paper
in the Englishman' by Sir Richard Steele,
giving an account of Selkirk ? It is admira-
ble, and has all the germs of 'Crusoe.' You
must quote it entire. Captain G. Carleton
wrote his own memoirs, they are about Lord
Peterborough's campaign in Spain, and a
good book. 'Puzzelli' puzzles me, and I am
in a cloud about 'Donald M'Leod.' I never
heard of them; so you see, my dear Wilson,
what poor assistances I can give in the way
of information. I wish your book out, for I
shall like to see anything about De Foe or
from you.
Your old friend, C. LAMB.

"From my and your old compound."

The following is the fragment of a letter addressed in the beginning of 1823 to Miss Hutchinson at Ramsgate, whither she had gone with an invalid relative.

TO MISS HUTCHINSON.

iron one of the two that 'shuts amain'—and that is the reason I am locked up. Meanwhile of afternoons we pick up primroses at Dalston, and Mary corrects me when I call 'em cowslips. God bless you all, and pray, remember me euphoniously to Mr. GThat Lee Priory must be a dainty bower. Is it built of flints?-and does it stand at Kingsgate ?"

In this year, Lamb made his greatest essay in house-keeping, by occupying Colebrook Cottage at Islington, on the banks of his beloved New River. There occurred the immersion of George Dyer at noontide, which supplies the subject of one of "The Last Essays of Elia ;" and which is veritably related in the following letter of Lamb, which is curious, as containing the germ of that delightful article, and the first sketches of the Brandy-and-Water Doctor therein celebrated as miraculous.

TO MRS. HAZLITT.

"November, 1823. "Dear Mrs. H.,—Sitting down to write a letter is such a painful operation to Mary, that you must accept me as her proxy. You have seen our house. What I now tell you "April 25th, 1823. is literally true. Yesterday week, George Dyer "Dear Miss H.,—It gives me great pleasure called upon us, at one o'clock, (bright noon (the letter now begins) to hear that you got day) on his way to dine with Mrs. Barbauld, down so smoothly, and that Mrs. M's at Newington. He sat with Mary about half spirits are so good and enterprising. It shows an hour, and took leave. The maid saw him whatever her posture may be, that her mind go out, from her kitchen window, but sudat least is not supine. I hope the excursion denly losing sight of him, ran up in a fright will enable the former to keep pace with its to Mary. G. D., instead of keeping the slip outstripping neighbour. Pray present our that leads to the gate, had deliberately, staff kindest wishes to her and all; (that sentence in hand, in broad open day, marched into should properly have come into the Postscript, the New River. He had not his spectacles but we airy mercurial spirits, there is no on, and you know his absence. Who helped keeping us in). Time' (as was said of one him out, they can hardly tell, but between 'em of us) 'toils after us in vain.' I am afraid they got him out, drenched thro' and thro'. our co-visit with Coleridge was a dream. I A mob collected by that time, and accomshall not get away before the end (or middle) panied him in. 'Send for the Doctor!' they of June, and then you will be frog-hopping said: and a one-eyed fellow, dirty and drunk, at Boulogne; and besides, I think the was fetched from the public-house at the end, Gilmans would scarce trust him with us; I where it seems he lurks, for the sake of pickhave a malicious knack at cutting of apron- ing up water-practice; having formerly had strings. The Saints' days you speak of have a medal from the Humane Society, for some long since fled to heaven, with Astræa, and rescue. By his advice, the patient was put the cold piety of the age lacks fervour to between blankets; and when I came home recall them; only Peter left his key-the at four, to dinner, I found G. D. a-bed, and

6

raving, light-headed, with the brandy-and principal as you mention; and the most water which the doctor had administered. graceful excuse for the acceptance, would be, He sung, laughed, whimpered, screamed, that it left you free to your voluntary babbled of guardian angels, would get up functions. That is the less light part of the and go home; but we kept him there by scruple. It has no darker shade. I put in force; and by next morning he departed darker, because of the ambiguity of the word sobered, and seems to have received no light, which Donne in his admirable poem injury. All my friends are open-mouthed on the Metempsychosis, has so ingeniously about having paling before the river, but I illustrated in his invocation— cannot see, because an absent man chooses to walk into a river, with his eyes open, at midday, I am any the more likely to be drowned in it, coming home at midnight.

"I have had the honour of dining at the Mansion House, on Thursday last, by special card from the Lord Mayor, who never saw my face, nor I his; and all from being a writer in a magazine! The dinner costly, served on massy plate, champagne, pines, &c.; forty-seven present, among whom, the Chairman, and two other directors of the India Company. There's for you! and got away pretty sober! Quite saved my credit! "We continue to like our house prodigiously. Our kind remembrances to you and yours. Yours truly,

C. LAMB.

1

2

1

'Make my dark heavy poem, light and light. where two senses of light are opposed to different opposites. A trifling criticism.—I can see no reason for any scruple then but what arises from your own interest; which is in your own power of course to solve. If you still have doubts, read over Sanderson's Cases of Conscience, and Jeremy Taylor's Ductor Dubitantium, the first a moderate octavo, the latter a folio of 900 close pages, and when you have thoroughly digested the admirable reasons pro and con which they give for every possible case, you will bejust as wise as when you began. Every man is his own best Casuist; and after all, as Ephraim Smooth in the pleasant comedy of 'Wild Oats,' has it, 'there is no harm in a

"I am pleased that H. liked my letter to Guinea.' A fortiori there is less in 2000. the Laureate."

Requested by the Quaker Poet, to advise him on a proposal for appropriating a large sum of money raised by a few admiring friends to his comfort in advancing years, Lamb gave his wise and genial judgment in the following letter

TO BERNARD BARTON

"I therefore most sincerely congratulate with you, excepting so far as excepted above. If you have fair prospects of adding to the principal, cut the Bank; but in either case do not refuse an honest Service. Your heart tells you it is not offered to bribe you from any duty, but to a duty which you feel to be your vocation. Farewell heartily.

"C. L."

The following, with its grotesque sketches, is addressed also

TO BERNARD BARTON.

"March 24th, 1824. "Dear B. B.,-I hasten to say that if my opinion can strengthen you in your choice, it is decisive for your acceptance of what has been "December 1st, 1824. so handsomely offer'd. I can see nothing in- "Dear B. B.,-If Mr. Mitford will send jurious to your most honourable sense. me a full and circumstantial description of Think that you are called to a poetical his desired vases, I will transmit the same Ministry-nothing worse-the Minister is to a gentleman resident at Canton, whom I worthy of the hire.-The only objection I feel is founded on a fear that the acceptance may be a temptation to you to let fall the bone (hard as it is) which is in your mouth and must afford tolerable pickings, for the shadow of independence. You cannot propose to become independent on what the low state of interest could afford you from such a

think I have interest enough in to take the proper care for their execution. But Mr. M, must have patience. China is a great way off, further perhaps than he thinks; and his next year's roses must be content to wither in a Wedgwood pot. He will please to say whether he should like his Arms upon them, &c. I send herewith some patterns which