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Frenchmen, and the Abbé Sièyes and his accepted at Drury-Lane Theatre, and announced for representation on Saturday the 13th December in this year. Lamb supplied the epilogue, which he copied in the following letter addressed to Manning on the eventful day :

TO MR. MANNING.

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 "Dec. 13th, 1800. past political service, bragging to his sons on "I have received your letter this moment, winter evenings of the part he took in public not having been at the office. I have just transactions, when his old cap was new.' time to scribble down the epilogue. To your Full of scandal, which all true history is. epistle I will just reply, that I will certainly No palliatives; but all the stark wickedness, come to Cambridge before January is out: that actually gives the momentum to national I'll come when I can. You shall have an actors. Quite the prattle of age, and outlived emended copy of my play early next week. importance. Truth and sincerity staring out Mary thanks you; but her handwriting is upon you perpetually in alto relievo. Himself too feminine to be exposed to a Cambridge a party man-he makes you a party man. gentleman, though I endeavour to persuade None of the cursed philosophical Humeian her that you understand algebra, and must indifference, so cold, and unnatural, and understand her hand. The play is the man's inhuman! None of the cursed Gibbonian you wot of; but for Heaven's sake do not fine writing, so fine and composite. None mention it-it is to come out in a feigned of Dr. Robertson's periods with three mem-name, as one Tobin's. I will omit the introbers. 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 tiresome 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 to Sophia.
"C. L."

While Lamb's dramatic destinies were in suspense, he was called on "to assist" at the production of a tragedy, by a friend, whose more mature reputation gave him readier access to the manager, but who had no better claim to success than himself. Mr. Godwin, whose powerful romance of Caleb Williams had supplied the materials for "The Iron Chest" of Colman, naturally aspired, on his own account, to the glory of the scene, and completed a tragedy under the title of "Antonio, or the Soldier's Return," which was

ductory 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 promisebreaking-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 scull 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

fate. The tragedy turned out a miracle of dulness for the world to wonder at, although Lamb always insisted it had one fine line, which he was fond of repeating-sole relic

John's hat, wig, snuff-box-well she knew his tricks of the else forgotten play. Kemble and

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.'

Mrs. Siddons, the brother and sister of the drama, toiled through four acts and a half without applause or disapprobation; one

Quoth Jack, Why what the devil storm's a-brewing? speech was not more vapid than another;

About a harmless play why all this fright?
I'll go and see it, if it's but for spite-
Zounds, woman! Nelson's 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.t
In that romantic, unenlighten'd time,
A breach of promise ‡ was a sort of crime-
Which of you handsome English ladies here,
But deems the penance bloody and severe?
A whimsical old Saragossa & fashion,
That a dead father's dying inclination,
Should live to thwart a living daughter's passion, ||
Unjustly on the sex we¶ men exclaim,
Rail at your

**

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?tt
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.'

When

and so dead was the level of the dialogue,
that, although its destiny was seen from afar,
it presented no opportunity for hissing. But
as the play drew towards a close, when, after
a scene of frigid chiding not vivified by any
fire of Kemble's own, Antonio drew his
sword and plunged it into the heroine's
bosom, the "sad civility" of the audience
vanished, they started as at a real murder,
and hooted the actors from the stage.
«
Philosophy," which could not "make a
Juliet," sustained the author through the
trial. He sat on one of the front benches of
the pit, unmoved amidst the storm.
the first act passed off without a hand, he
expressed his satisfaction at the good sense
of the house; "the proper season of applause
had not arrived;" all was exactly as it
should be. The second act proceeded to its
close in the same uninterrupted calm; his
friends became uneasy, but still his optimism
he could afford to wait. And
prevailed;
though he did at last admit the great move-
ment was somewhat tardy, and that the
audience seemed rather patient than inter-
ested, he did not lose his confidence till the
tumult arose, and then he submitted with
quiet dignity to the fate of genius, too lofty
to be understood by a world as yet in its
childhood! Notwithstanding this rude re-
pulse, Mr. Godwin retained his taste for the
theatre to the last. On every first night of

"Now you have it all-how do you like a new piece, whether tragedy, comedy, or it? I am going to hear it recited!!!

"C. L."

Alas for human hopes! The play was decisively damned, and the epilogue shared its

farce, whether of friend or foe, he sat with gentle interest in a side-box, and bore its fate, whatever it might be, with resignation, as he had done his own. The following is Lamb's account of the catastrophe rendered to Manning, in which the facetious charge against the unlucky author of "Violent and

"A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or Satanical Pride of Heart," has reference to

three times at both theatres-and advertised himself."

t "Four easy lines."

"For which the heroine died."

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tt "Antithesis!!"

"Two neat lines."

some banter which Lamb had encountered among his friends by the purposed title of

**"Or our, as they have altered it." his own play, "Pride's Cure," and his dis

quisition in its defence.

TO MR. MANNING.

"Dec. 16th, 1800. "We are damned!-Not the facetious epilogue itself 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, Mr. 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 philosophiæ tantas victorias acquisivisti),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 Encyclopedia itself was part of thy meditated acquisitions; but many a playbook was there. All these visions are damned; and thou, Professor, must read Shakspeare 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 500l. ideal money out of pocket by this failure, besides 2007. 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 2007. from thy bookseller changed to an uncertainty of his taking it at all, or giving thee full 50%. 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 perspiration; 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 proposi-a pleasure in beholding a delicate and welltion, 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."

In another letter, a few days after, Lamb thus recurs to the subject, and closes the century in anticipation of a visit to his friend at Cambridge.

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."

TO MR. MANNING.

"Dec. 27th, 1800.

CHAPTER VII.

[1801 to 1804.]

TO MANNING, WORDSWORTH, AND COLERIDGE; JOHN WOODVIL REJECTED, PUBLISHED, AND REVIEWED.

"As for the other Professor, he has actually begun to dive into Tavernier and Chardin's LETTERS 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

THE ominous postponement of Lamb's theatrical hopes was followed by their disappointment at the commencement of the century. He was favoured with at least one interview by the stately manager of Drury-lane, Mr. Kemble, who extended his high-bred courtesy even to authors, whom he invariably attended to the door of his house in Great Russell-street, and bade them "beware of the step." Godwin's catastrophe had probably rendered him less solicitous to encounter a similar peril; which the fondest admirers of "John Woodvil" will not regret that it escaped. While the occasional roughness of its verse would have been felt as strange to ears as yet unused to the old dramatists whom Lamb's Specimens had not then made familiar to the town, the delicate beauties enshrined within it would scarcely have been perceived in the glare of the theatre. Exhibiting "the depth, and not the tumults of the soul,"-presenting a female character of modest and retiring loveliness and noble purpose, but undistracted with any violent emotion, and developing a train of circumstances which work out their gentle triumphs on the heart only of the hero, without stirring accident or vivid grouping of persons,-it would scarcely have supplied sufficient of coarse interest to disarm the critical spirit which it would certainly have encountered in all its bitterness. Lamb cheerfully consoled himself by publishing it; and at the close of the year 1801 it appeared in a small volume, of humble appearance, with the "Fragments of Burton,” (to which Lamb alluded in one of his previous letters,)

two of his quarto ballads, and the "Helen" been accustomed to damn all works of unof his sister.

The daring peculiarities attracted the notice of the Edinburgh reviewers, then in the infancy of their slashing career, and the volume was immolated, in due form, by the self-constituted judges, who, taking for their motto "Judex damnatur cùm nocens absolvitur," treated our author as a criminal convicted of publishing, and awaiting his doom from their sentence. With the gay recklessness of power, at once usurped and irresponsible, they introduced Lord Mansfield's wild construction of the law of libel into literature; like him, holding every man prima facie guilty, who should be caught in the act of publishing a book, and referring to the court to decide whether sentence should be passed on him. The article on "John Woodvil," which adorned their third number, is a curious example of the old style of criticism vivified by the impulses of youth. We wonder now-and probably the writer of the article, if he is living, will wonder with us-that a young critic should seize on a little eighteen-penny book, simply printed, without any preface; make elaborate merriment of its outline, and, giving no hint of its containing one profound thought or happy expression, leave the reader of the review at a loss to suggest a motive for noticing such vapid absurdities. This article is written in a strain of grave banter, the theme of which is to congratulate the world on having a specimen of the rudest condition of the drama, "a man of the age of Thespis." "At length," says the reviewer, "even in composition a mighty veteran has been born. Older than Æschylus, and with all the spirit of originality, in an age of poets who had before them the imitations of some thousand years, he comes forward to establish his claim to the ancient hircus, and to satiate the most remote desires of the philosophic antiquary." On this text the writer proceeds, selecting for his purpose whatever, torn from its context, appeared extravagant and crude, and ending without the slightest hint that there is merit, or promise of merit, in the volume. There certainly was no malice, or desire to give pain, in all this; it was merely the result of the thoughtless adoption, by lads of gaiety and talent, of the old critical canons of the Monthly Reviews, which had

patronised genius in a more summary way, and after a duller fashion. These very critics wrought themselves into good-nature as they broke into deeper veins of thought; grew gentler as they grew wiser: and sometimes, even when, like Balaam, they came to curse, like him, they ended with "blessing altogether," as in the review of the "Excursion," which, beginning in the old strain, "This will never do," proceeded to give examples of its noblest passages, and to grace them with worthiest eulogy. And now, the spirit of the writers thus ridiculed, especially of Wordsworth, breathes through the pages of this very Review, and they not seldom wear the rich embroidery" of the language of the poet once scoffed at by their literary corporation as too puerile for the nursery.

Lamb's occasional connexion with newspapers introduced him to some of the editors and contributors of that day, who sought to repair the spirit wasted by perpetual exertion, in the protracted conviviality of the evening, and these associates sometimes left poor Lamb with an aching head, and a purse exhausted by the claims of their necessities upon it. Among those was Fenwick, immortalised as the Bigod of "Elia," who edited several ill-fated newspapers in succession, and was the author of many libels, which did his employers no good and his Majesty's government no harm. These connexions will explain some of the allusions in the following letters.

TO MR. MANNING.

"I heard that you were going to China,* with a commission from the Wedgwoods to collect hints for their pottery, and to teach the Chinese perspective. But I did not know that London lay in your way to Pekin. I am seriously glad of it, for I shall trouble you with a small present for the Emperor of Usbeck Tartary, as you go by his territories > it is a fragment of a 'Dissertation on the state of political parties in England at the end of the eighteenth century,' which will no doubt be very interesting to his Imperial Majesty. It was written originally in English

Mr. Manning had begun to be haunted with the

idea of China, and to talk of going thither, which he

accomplished some years afterwards, without any motive but a desire to see that great nation.

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