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"God bless you.-Your old friend,
"C. LAMB."

twenty years together, you must not expect seat; and then the genial hubbub of voices numerically the same population to congratu- was still; critics, philosophers, and poets, late your return which wetted the sea- were contented to listen; and toil-worn beach with their tears when you went away. lawyers, clerks from the India House, and Have you recovered the breathless stone- members of the Stock Exchange, grew rostaring astonishment into which you must mantic while he spoke. Lamb used to say have been thrown upon learning at landing that he was inferior then to what he had that an Emperor of France was living in been in his youth; but I can scarcely believe St. Helena? What an event in the solitude it; at least there is nothing in his early of the seas! like finding a fish's bone at the writing which gives any idea of the richness top of Plinlimmon; but these things are of his mind so lavishly poured out at this nothing in our western world. Novelties time in his happiest moods. Although he cease to affect. Come and try what your looked much older than he was, his hair presence can. being silvered all over, and his person tending to corpulency, there was about him no trace of bodily sickness or mental decay, but rather an air of voluptuous repose. His benignity The years which Lamb passed in his of manner placed his auditors entirely at chambers in Inner Temple Lane were, per- their ease; and inclined them to listen dehaps, the happiest of his life. His salary was lighted to the sweet, low tone in which he considerably augmented, his fame as an began to discourse on some high theme. author was rapidly extending; he resided Whether he had won for his greedy listener near the spot which he best loved; and was only some raw lad, or charmed a circle of surrounded by a motley group of attached beauty, rank, and wit, who hung breathless friends, some of them men of rarest parts, on his words, he talked with equal eloquence; and all strongly attached to him and to his for his subject, not his audience, inspired sister. Here the glory of his Wednesday him. At first his tones were conversational; nights shone forth in its greatest lustre. If he seemed to dally with the shadows of the you did not meet there the favourites of subject and with fantastic images which borfortune; authors whose works bore the dered it; but gradually the thought grew highest price in Paternoster Row, and who deeper, and the voice deepened with the glittered in the circles of fashion; you might thought; the stream gathering strength, find those who had thought most deeply; seemed to bear along with it all things which felt most keenly; and were destined to pro- opposed its progress, and blended them with duce the most lasting influences on the lite- its current; and stretching away among rature and manners of the age. There regions tinted with ethereal colours, was lost Hazlitt, sometimes kindling into fierce pas- at airy distance in the horizon of fancy. His sion at any mention of the great reverses of hearers were unable to grasp his theories, his idol Napoleon, at other times bashfully which were indeed too vast to be exhibited enunciated the finest criticism on art; or in the longest conversation; but they perdwelt with genial iteration on a passage in ceived noble images, generous suggestions, Chaucer; or, fresh from the theatre, ex-affecting pictures of virtue, which enriched patiated on some new instance of energy in their minds and nurtured their best affecKean, or reluctantly conceded a greatness to tions. Coleridge was sometimes induced to Kemble; or detected some popular fallacy with the fairest and the subtlest reasoning. There Godwin, as he played his quiet rubber, or benignantly joined in the gossip of the day, sat an object of curiosity and wonder to the stranger, who had been at one time shocked or charmed with his high speculation, and at another awe-struck by the force and graphic power of his novels. There Coleridge sometimes, though rarely, took his

recite portions of "Christabel," then enshrined in manuscript from eyes profane, and gave a bewitching effect to its wizard lines. But more peculiar in its beauty than this, was his recitation of Kubla Khan. As he repeated the passage

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :

It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mont Abora!

his voice seemed to mount, and melt into air, as the images grew more visionary, and the suggested associations more remote. He usually met opposition by conceding the point to the objector, and then went on with his high argument as if it had never been raised: thus satisfying his antagonist, himself, and all who heard him; none of whom desired to hear his discourse frittered into points, or displaced by the near encounter even of the most brilliant wits. The first time I met him, which was on one of those Wednesday evenings, we quitted the party together between one and two in the morning; Coleridge took my arm and led me nothing loath, at a very gentle pace, to his lodgings, at the Gloucester Coffee-house, pouring into my ear the whole way an argument by which he sought to reconcile the doctrines of Necessity and Free-will, winding on through a golden maze of exquisite illustration; but finding no end, except with the termination of that (to me) enchanted walk. He was only then on the threshold of the Temple of Truth, into which his genius darted its quivering and uncertain rays, but which he promised shortly to light up with unbroken lustre. "I understood a beauty in the words, but not the words: "

"And when the stream of sound,
Which overflowed the soul, had passed away,
A consciousness survived that it had left,
Deposited upon the silent shore

Of memory, images and gentle thoughts,
Which cannot die, and will not be destroyed."

Men of "great mark and likelihood"attended those delightful suppers, where the utmost freedom prevailed-including politicians of every grade, from Godwin up to the editor of the "New Times."

Hazlitt has alluded con amore to these meetings in his Essay "On the Conversation of Authors," and has reported one of the most remarkable discussions which graced them in his Essay "On Persons one would wish to have seen," published by his son, in the two volumes of his remains, which with so affectionate a care he has given to the world. In this was a fine touch of Lamb's pious feeling, breaking through his fancies. and his humours, which Hazlitt has recorded, but which cannot be duly appreciated, except by those who can recall to memory the suffused eye and quivering lip with which

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"Aug. 31st, 1817. "My dear Barron,-The bearer of this letter SO far across the seas is Mr. Lawrey, who comes out to you as a missionary, and whom I have been strongly importuned to recommend to you as a most worthy creature by Mr. Fenwick, a very old, honest friend of mine; of whom, if my

From this it may at first appear, that the author

meant to ascribe vocal talents to his friend, the Director of the Italian Opera; but it is merely a "line for rhyme." For, though the public were indebted to

Mr. A. for many fine foreign singers, we believe that he never claimed to be himself a singer.

memory does not deceive me, you have had some knowledge heretofore as editor of 'The Statesman,' a man of talent, and patriotic. If you can show him any facilities in his arduous undertaking, you will oblige us much. Well, and how does the land of thieves use you? and how do you pass your time, in your extra-judicial intervals ? Going about the streets with a lantern, like Diogenes, looking for an honest man? You may look long enough, I fancy. Do give me some notion of the manners of the inhabitants where you are. They don't thieve all day long do they? No human property could stand such continuous battery. And what do they do when they an't stealing?

"Have you got a theatre? What pieces are performed? Shakspeare's, I suppose; not so much for the poetry, as for his having once been in danger of leaving his country on account of certain 'small deer.'

I

"Have you poets among you? Cursed plagiarists, I fancy, if you have any. would not trust an idea, or a pocket-handkerchief of mine, among 'em. You are almost competent to answer Lord Bacon's problem, whether a nation of atheists can subsist together. You are practically in one :

'So thievish 'tis, that the eighth commandment itself Scarce seemeth there to be.'

Our old honest world goes on with little perceptible variation. Of course you have heard of poor Mitchell's death, and that G. Dyer is one of Lord Stanhope's residuaries. I am afraid he has not touched much of the residue yet. He is positively as lean as Cassius. Barnes is going to Demerara, or Essequibo, I am not quite certain which. A is turned actor. He came out in genteel comedy at Cheltenham this season, and has hopes of a London engagement.

"For my own history, I am just in the same spot, doing the same thing, (videlicet, little or nothing,) as when you left me; only I have positive hopes that I shall be able to conquer that inveterate habit of smoking which you may remember I indulged in. I think of making a beginning this evening, viz., Sunday, 31st Aug., 1817, not Wednesday, 2nd Feb., 1818, as it will be perhaps when you read this for the first time. There is the difficulty of writing from one end of the globe (hemispheres I call 'em) to another!

Why, half the truths I have sent you in this letter will become lies before they reach you, and some of the lies (which I have mixed for variety's sake, and to exercise your judgment in the finding of them out) may be turned into sad realities before you shall be called upon to detect them. Such are the defects of going by different chronologies. Your now is not my now; and again, your then is not my then; but my now may be your then, and vice versa. Whose head is competent to these things?

"How does Mrs. Field get on in her geography? Does she know where she is by this time? I am not sure sometimes you are not in another planet; but then I don't like to ask Capt. Burney, or any of those that know anything about it, for fear of exposing my ignorance.

"Our kindest remembrances, however, to Mrs. F., if she will accept of reminiscences from another planet, or at least another hemisphere. C. L."

Lamb's intention of spending the rest of his days in the Middle Temple was not to be realised. The inconveniences of being in chambers began to be felt as he and his sister grew older, and in the autumn of this year they removed to lodgings in Russell-street, Covent Garden, the corner house, delightfully situated between the two great theatres. In November, 1817, Miss Lamb announced the removal to Miss Wordsworth in a letter, to which Lamb added the following:

TO MISS WORDSWORTH.

Bow-street, where the thieves are examined, within a few yards of us. Mary had not been here four-and-twenty hours before she saw a thief. She sits at the window working; and casually throwing out her eyes, she sees a concourse of people coming this way, with a constable to conduct the solemnity. These little incidents agreeably diversify a female

life.

"Mary has brought her part of this letter to an orthodox and loving conclusion, which is very well, for I have no room for pansies and remembrances. What a nice holyday I got on Wednesday by favour of a princess dying! C. L."

CHAPTER XI.
[1818 to 1820.]

LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, SOUTHEY, MANNING, AND

COLERIDGE.

LAMB, now in the immediate neighbourhood of the theatres, renewed the dramatic associations of his youth, which the failure of one experiment had not chilled. Although he rather loved to dwell on the recollections of the actors who had passed from the stage, than to mingle with the happy crowds who hailed the successive triumphs of Mr. Kean, he formed some new and steady theatrical attachments. His chief favourites of this time were Miss Kelly, Miss Burrell of the Olympic, and Munden. The first, then the sole support of the English Opera, became a frequent guest in Great Russell-street, and charmed the circle there by the heartiness of her manners, the delicacy and gentleness "Dear Miss Wordsworth,-Here we are, of her remarks, and her unaffected sensibility, transplanted from our native soil. I thought as much as she had done on the stage. Miss we never could have been torn up from the Burrell, a lady of more limited powers, but Temple. Indeed it was an ugly wrench, but with a frank and noble style, was discovered like a tooth, now 'tis out, and I am easy. by Lamb on one of the visits which he paid, We never can strike root so deep in any other on the invitation of his old friend Elliston ground. This, where we are, is a light bit of to the Olympic, where the lady performed gardener's mould, and if they take us up the hero of that happy parody of Moncrieff's from it, it will cost no blood and groans, Giovanni in London. To her Lamb devoted like man-drakes pulled up. We are in the a little article, which he sent to the Exaindividual spot I like best, in all this great miner, in which he thus addresses her :city. The theatres, with all their noises. "But Giovanni, free, fine, frank-spirited Covent Garden, dearer to me than any single-hearted creature, turning all the misgardens of Alcinous, where we are morally chief into fun as harmless as toys, or sure of the earliest peas and 'sparagus. children's make believe, what praise can we

"Nov. 21st, 1817.

repay to you adequate to the pleasure which you have given us? We had better be silent, for you have no name, and our mention will but be thought fantastical. You have taken out the sting from the evil thing, by what magic we know not, for there are actresses of greater merit and likelihood than you. With you and your Giovanni our spirits will hold communion, whenever sorrow or suffering shall be our lot. We have seen you triumph over the infernal powers; and pain and Erebus, and the powers of darkness, are shapes of a dream." Miss Burrell soon married a person named Gold, and disappeared from the stage. To Munden in prose, and Miss Kelly in verse, Lamb has done ample justice.

Lamb's increasing celebrity, and universal kindness, rapidly increased the number of his visitors. He thus complained, in wayward mood, of them to Mrs. Wordsworth:

TO MRS. WORDSWORTH.

"East-India House, 18th Feb., 1818.

"My dear Mrs. Wordsworth,-I have repeatedly taken pen in hand to answer your kind letter. My sister should more properly have done it, but she having failed, I consider myself answerable for her debts. I am now trying to do it in the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems more ready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of gourds, cassia, cardemoms, aloes, ginger, or tea, than into kindly responses and friendly recollections. The reason why I cannot write letters at home, is, that I am never alone. Plato's-(I write to W. W. now)Plato's double-animal parted never longed more to be reciprocally re-united in the system of its first creation, than I sometimes do to be but for a moment single and separate. Except my morning's walk to the office, which is like treading on sands of gold for that reason, I am never so. I cannot walk home from office, but some officious friend offers his unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. All the morning I am pestered. I could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, or compare sum with sum, and write 'paid' against this, and 'unpaid' against t'other, and yet reserve in some corner of my mind, 'some darling thoughts all my own-faint memory of some passage in a book, or the tone of an absent friend's voice-a snatch of

Miss Burrell's singing, or a gleam of Fanny Kelly's divine plain face. The two operations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, as the sun's two motions (earth's I mean), or, as I sometimes turn round till I am giddy, in my back parlour, while my sister is walking longitudinally in the front; or, as the shoulder of veal twists round with the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. But there are a set of amateurs of the Belles Lettres-the gay science-who come to me as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of British Institutions, Lalla Rookhs, &c.—what Coleridge said at the lecture last night—who have the form of reading men, but, for any possible use reading can be to them, but to talk of, might as well have been AnteCadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an Egyptian hieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last, before they should find it. These pests worrit me at business, and in all its intervals, perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time at the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if I take a newspaper, cramming in between my own free thoughts and a column of figures, which had come to an amicable compromise but for them. Their noise ended, one of them, as I said, accompanies me home, lest I should be solitary for a moment; he at length takes his welcome leave at the door; up I go, mutton on table, hungry as hunter, hope to forget my cares, and bury them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication; knock at the door, in comes Mr. —, or M—, or Demi-gorgon, or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone-a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. O, the pleasure of eating alone!-eating my dinner alone! let me think of it. But in they come, and make it absolutely necessary that I should open a bottle of orange-for my meat turns into stone when any one dines with me, if I have not wine. Wine can mollify stones; then that wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters-(God bless 'em! I love some of 'em dearly), and with the hatred, a still greater aversion to their going away. Bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, choking and deadening, but worse is the deader dry sand they leave me on, if they go before bed-time. Come never,

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