Believe us both, with greatest regards, yours

and Mrs. Talfourd's.

CHARLES LAMB-PHILO-TALfourd.

I come as near it as I can.*

* The child who bore the name so honoured by his parents, survived his god-father only a year-dying at Brighton, whither he had been taken in the vain hope of restoration, on the 3rd December 1835. Will the reader forgive the weakness which prompts the desire, in this place, to link their memories together, by inserting a few verses which, having been only published at the end of the last small edition of the Editor's dramas, may have missed some of the friendly eyes for which they were written?

Our gentle Charles has passed away

From earth's short bondage free,

And left to us its leaden day,

And mist-enshrouded sea.

Here, by the restless ocean's side,

Sweet hours of hope have flown,
When first the triumph of its tide
Seem'd omen of our own.

That eager joy the sea-breeze gave,
When first it raised his hair,
Sunk with each day's retiring wave,
Beyond the reach of prayer.

The sun-blink that through drizzling mist,

To flickering hope akin,

Lone waves with feeble fondness kiss'd,

No smile as faint can win ;

The following notes, undated, but of about 1829, were addressed to Coleridge, under the

genial care of Mr. Gilman at Highgate :

DEAR C.

TO MR. COLERIDGE.

Your sonnet is capital. The paper inge

nious,* only that it split into four parts (besides a

Yet not in vain, with radiance weak,

The heavenly stranger gleams—
Not of the world it lights to speak,
But that from whence it streams.

That world our patient sufferer sought,
Serene with pitying eyes,
As if his mounting Spirit caught

The wisdom of the skies.

With boundless love it look'd abroad

For one bright moment given;
Shone with a loveliness that aw'd,
And quiver'd into Heaven.

A year, made slow by care and toil,

Has paced its weary round,

Since Death enrich'd with kindred spoil

The snow-clad, frost-ribb'd ground.

* Some gauzy tissue paper on which the sonnet was copied.

side splinter) in the carriage. I have transferred it to the common English paper, manufactured of

Then Lamb, with whose endearing name

Our boy we proudly graced,

Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame
Than mightier Bards embraced.

Still 'twas a mournful joy to think
Our darling might supply
For years on earth, a living link,
To name that cannot die.

And though such fancy gleam no more
On earthly sorrow's night,

Truth's nobler torch unveils the shore
Which lends to both its light.

The nurseling there that hand may take,
None ever grasp'd in vain ;

And smiles of well-known sweetness wake,

Without their tinge of pain.

Though 'twixt the Child and child-like Bard,

Late seemed distinction wide,

Each now may trace in Heaven's regard,
How near they were allied.

Within the infant's ample brow

Blythe fancies lay unfurl'd,
Which, all uncrush'd, may open now,
To charm a sinless world.

Though the soft spirit of those eyes

Might ne'er with Lamb's compete

Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise,
Or melt in tears, as sweet;

rags, for better preservation. I never knew before how the "Iliad" and "Odyssey Odyssey" were written. 'Tis strikingly corroborated by observations on Cats. These domestic animals, put 'em on a rug before the fire, wink their eyes up, and listen to the kettle, and then purr, which is their poetry.

On Sunday week we kiss your hands (if they are clean). This next Sunday I have been engaged for some time.

With remembrances to your good host and hostess, Yours ever,

C. LAMB.

That calm and unforgotten look

A kindred love reveals,

With his who never friend forsook,
Or hurt a thing that feels.

In thought profound, in wildest glee,
In sorrows dark and strange,
The soul of Lamb's bright infancy
Endured no spot or change.

From traits of each our love receives

For comfort, nobler scope;

While light, which child-like genius leaves,

Confirms the infant's hope ;

And in that hope with sweetness fraught

Be aching hearts beguiled,

To blend in one delightful thought,

The POET and the CHILD!

TO THE SAME.

MY DEAR COLERIDGE,

With pain and grief, I must entreat you to excuse us on Thursday. My head, though externally correct, has had severe concussion in my long illness, and the very idea of an engagement hanging over for a day or two, forbids my rest, and I get up miserable. I am not well enough for company. I do assure you, no other thing prevents me coming. I expect and his brothers this or to-morrow evening, and it worries me to death that I am not ostensibly ill enough to put 'em off. I will get better, when I shall hope to see your nephew. He will come again. Mary joins in best love to the Gilmans. Do, I earnestly entreat you, excuse me. I assure you, again, that I am not fit to go out yet.

Yours (though shattered),

Tuesday.

C. LAMB.

The next two notelets are addressed to Coleridge's excellent host, on the occasion of borrowing and returning the works of Fuller :

: