DEAR MOXON,

TO MR. MOXON.

The snows are ancle-deep, slush, and mire, that 'tis hard to get to the post-office, and cruel to send the maid out. "Tis a slough of despair, or I should sooner have thanked you for your offer of the "Life," which we shall very much like to have, and will return duly. I do not know when I shall be in town, but in a week or two, at farthest, when I will come as far as you, if I can. We are moped to death with confinement within doors; I send you a curiosity of G. Dyer's tender conscience. Between thirty and forty years since, G. published the "Poet's Fate," in which were two very harmless lines about Mr. Rogers, but Mr. R., not quite approving of them, they were left out in a subsequent edition, 1801. But G. has been worrying about them ever since; if I have heard once, I have heard him a hundred times, express a remorse proportioned to a consciousness of having been guilty of an atrocious libel. As the devil would have it, a man they call Barker, in his "Parriana" has quoted the

identical two lines, as they stood in some obscure edition anterior to 1801, and the withers of poor G. are again wrung. His letter is a gem; with his blind eyes poor it has been laboured out at six sittings. The history of the couplet is in page 3 of this irregular production, in which every variety of shape and size that letters can be twisted into is to be found. Do show his part of it to Mr. R. some day. If he has bowels, they must melt at the contrition so queerly charactered of a contrite sinner. G. was born, I verily think, without original sin, but chooses to have a conscience, as every Christian gentleman should have; his dear face is insusceptible of the twist they call a sneer, yet he is apprehensive of being suspected of that ugly appearance. When he makes a compliment, he thinks he has given an affront—a name is personality. But show (no hurry) this unique recantation to Mr. R.: 'tis like a dirty pocket-handkerchief, mucked with tears of some indigent Magdalen. There is the impress of sincerity in every pot-hook and hanger; and then the gilt frame to such a pauper picture; it should go into the Museum !

Come when the weather will possibly let you;

I want to see the Wordsworths, but I do not much like to be all night away. It is dull enough to be here together, but it is duller to leave Mary; in short, it is painful, and in a flying visit I should hardly catch them. I have no beds for them if they come down, and but a sort of a house to receive them in; yet I shall regret their departure unseen; I feel cramped and straitened every way. Where are they?

We have heard from Emma but once, and that a month ago, and are very anxious for another letter.

You say we have forgot your powers of being serviceable to us. That we never shall; I do not know what I should do without you when I want a little commission. Now then: there are left at Miss Buffon's, the "Tales of the Castle," and certain volumes of the "Retrospective Review." The first should be conveyed to Novello's, and the Reviews should be taken to Talfourd's office, ground-floor, east side, Elm Court, Middle Temple, to whom I should have written, but my spirits are wretched; it is quite an effort to write this. with the "Life," I have cut you out three pieces of service. What can I do for you here, but hope to

So

see you very soon, and think of you with most kindness? I fear to-morrow, between rains and snows it would be impossible to expect you, but do not let a practicable Sunday pass. We are always at home.

Mary joins in remembrances to your sister, whom we hope to see in any fineish weather, when she'll venture.

Remember us to Allsop, and all the dead people; to whom, and to London, we seem dead.

In February 1833, the following letter was addressed by Lamb to the editor, on his being made Serjeant:—

TO MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD.

MY DEAR T.,

*

Now cannot I call him Serjeant; what is there in a coif? Those canvas-sleeves protective from ink, when he was a law-chit-a Chittyling, (let the leathern apron be apocryphal) do more 'specially plead to the Jury Court, of old memory.

* Mr. Lamb always insisted that the costume referred to was worn when he first gladdened his young friend by a call at Mr. Chitty's chambers. I am afraid it is all apocryphal.

The costume (will he agnize it?) was as of a deskfellow, or Socius Plutei. Methought I spied a brother!

Curse me

That familiarity is extinct for ever. if I can call him Mr. Serjeant-except, mark me, in company. Honour where honour is due; but should he ever visit us, (do you think he ever will, Mary?) what a distinction should I keep up between him and our less fortunate friend, H. C. R! Decent respect shall always be the Crabb's—but, somehow, short of reverence.

Well, of my old friends, I have lived to see two knighted, one made a judge, another in a fair way to it. Why am I restive? why stands my sun upon Gibeah?

Variously, my dear Mrs. Talfourd, [I can be more familiar with her!] Mrs. Serjeant Talfourd,—my sister prompts me-(these ladies stand upon ceremonies) has the congratulable news affected the members of our small community. Mary comprehended it at once, and entered into it heartily. Mrs. W was, as usual, perverse; wouldn't, or couldn't, understand it. A Serjeant? She thought Mr. T. was in the law. Didn't know that he ever 'listed.