-- TO BERNARD BARTON. "May 16th, 1826. "Dear B. B.,-I have had no spirits lately to begin a letter to you, though I am under obligations to you (how many!) for your neat little poem. 'Tis just what it professes to be, a simple tribute, in chaste verse, serious and sincere. will bribe over the judges to him. All the | in from Woodbridge; the sky does not drop time I was at the E. I. H., I never such larks every day. My very kindest mended a pen; I now cut 'em to the stumps, wishes to you all three, with my sister's best marring rather than mending the primitive love. C. LAMB." goose-quill. I cannot bear to pay for articles I used to get for nothing. When Adam laid out his first penny upon nonpareils at some stall in Mesopotamos, I think it went hard with him, reflecting upon his old goodly orchard, where he had so many for nothing. When I write to a great man at the court end, he opens with surprise upon a naked note, such as Whitechapel people interchange, with no sweet degrees of envelope. I never enclosed one bit of paper in another, nor understood the rationale of it. Once only I sealed with borrowed wax, to set Walter Scott a wondering, signed with the imperial quartered arms of England, which my friend Field bears in compliment to his descent, in the female line, from Oliver Cromwell. It must have set his antiquarian curiosity upon watering. To your questions upon the currency, I refer you to Mr. Robinson's last speech, where, if you can find a solution, I cannot. I think this, though, the best ministry we ever stumbled upon; -— gin reduced four shillings in the gallon, wine two shillings in the quart! This comes home to men's minds and bosoms. My tirade against visitors was not meant particularly at you or A. K—. I scarce know what I meant, for I do not just now feel the grievance. I wanted to make an article. So in another thing I talked of somebody's insipid wife, without a correspondent object in my head: and a good lady, a friend's wife, whom I really love, (don't startle, I mean in a licit way,) has looked shyly on me ever since. The blunders of personal application are ludicrous. I send out a character every now and then, on purpose to exercise the ingenuity of my friends. 'Popular Fallacies' will go on; that word concluded is an erratum, I suppose for continued. I do not know how it got stuffed in there. A little thing without name will also be printed on the Religion of the Actors, but it is out of your way, so I recommend you, with true author's hypocrisy, to skip it. We are about to sit down to roast beef, at which we could wish A. K., B. B., and B. B.'s pleasant daughter to be humble partakers. So much for my hint at visitors, which was scarcely calculated for droppers "I do not know how friends will relish it, but we outlyers, honorary friends, like it very well. I have had my head and ears stuffed up with the east winds. A continual ringing in my brain of bells jangled, or the spheres touched by some raw angel. Is it not George the Third trying the Hundredth Psalm? I get my music for nothing. But the weather seems to be softening, and will thaw my stunnings. Coleridge, writing to me a week or two since, begins his note 'Summer has set in with its usual severity.' A cold summer is all I know of disagreeable in cold. I do not mind the utmost rigour of real winter, but these smiling hypocrites of Mays wither me to death. My head has been a ringing chaos, like the day the winds were made, before they submitted to the discipline of a weathercock, before the quarters were made. In the street, with the blended noises of life about me, I hear, and my head is lightened; but in a room the hubbub comes back, and I am deaf as a sinner. Did I tell you of a pleasant sketch Hood has done, which he calls-'Very deaf indeed?' It is of a good-natured stupid-looking old gentleman, whom a footpad has stopped, but for his extreme deafness cannot make him understand what he wants. The unconscious old gentleman is extending his ear trumpet very complacently, and the fellow is firing a pistol into it to make him hear, but the ball will pierce his skull sooner than the report reach his sensorium. I choose a very little bit of paper, for my ear hisses when I bend down to write. I can hardly read a book, for I miss that small soft voice which the idea of articulated words raises (almost imperceptibly to you) in a silent reader. I seem too deaf to see what I read. But with a touch or two of returning zephyr my head will "It is ill with me when I begin to look which way the wind sits. Ten years ago, I literally did not know the point from the broad end of the vane, which it was that indicated the quarter. I hope these ill winds have blown over you as they do through me. "So A. K. keeps a school; she teaches nothing wrong, I'll answer for 't. I have a Dutch print of a school-mistress; little oldfashioned Fleminglings, with only one face among them. She a princess of a schoolmistress, wielding a rod for form more than use; the scene, an old monastic chapel, with a Madonna over her head, looking just as serious, as thoughtful, as pure, as gentle as herself. 'Tis a type of thy friend. "Yours with kindest wishes to your daughter and friend, in which Mary joins, "C. LAMB." About this time a little sketch was taken of Lamb, and published. It is certainly not flattering; but there is a touch of Lamb's character in it. He sent one of the prints to Coleridge, with the following note. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "June 1st, 1826. "Dear Coleridge,-If I know myself, nobody more detests the display of personal vanity, which is implied in the act of sitting for one's picture, than myself. But the fact is, that the likeness which accompanies this letter was stolen from my person at one of my unguarded moments by some too partial artist, and my friends are pleased to think that he has not much flattered me. Whatever its merits may be, you, who have so great an interest in the original, will have a satisfaction in tracing the features of one that has so long esteemed you. There are times when in a friend's absence these graphic representations of him almost seem to bring back the man himself. The painter, whoever he was, seems to have taken me in one of those disengaged moments, if I may so term them, when the native character is so much more honestly displayed than can be possible in the restraints of an enforced sitting attitude. Perhaps it rather describes me as a thinking man, than a man in the act of thought. Whatever its pretensions, I know it will be dear to you, towards whom I should wish my thoughts to flow in a sort of an undress rather than in the more studied graces of diction. "I am, dear Coleridge, yours sincerely, "C. LAMB." In the following summer, Lamb and his sister went on a long visit to Enfield, which ultimately led to his giving up Colebrookecottage, and becoming a constant resident at that place. It was a great sacrifice to him, who loved London so well; but his sister's health and his own required a secession from the crowd of visitors who pressed on him at Islington, and whom he could not help welcoming. He thus invited Mr. Cary, once librarian of the British Museum, to look in upon his retreat TO MR. CARY. "Dear Sir,It is whispered me that you will not be unwilling to look into our doleful hermitage. Without more preface, you will gladden our cell by accompanying our old chums of the London, Darley and A. C., to Enfield on Wednesday. You shall have hermit's fare, with talk as seraphical as the novelty of the divine life will permit, with an innocent retrospect to the world which we have left, when I will thank you for your hospitable offer at Chiswick, and with plain hermit reasons evince the necessity of abiding here. this time to Coleridge, who was seriously point for the stage. He alludes to it in the contemplating a poetical pantomime. following letter. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "1826. TO BERNARD BARTON. "Aug. 10th, 1827. "Dear B. B., -I have not been able to answer you, for we have had, and are having, (I just snatch a moment,) our poor quiet retreat, to which we fled from society, full of company, some staying with us, and this moment, as I write, almost, a heavy importation of two old ladies has come in. Whither can I take wing, from the oppression of "Dear C., We will with great pleasure be with you on Thursday in the next week early. Your finding out my style in your nephew's pleasant book is surprising to me. I want eyes to descry it. You are a little too hard upon his morality, though I confess he has more of Sterne about him than of Sternhold. But he saddens into excellent sense before the conclusion. Your query human faces? Would I were in a wilderness shall be submitted to Miss Kelly, though it of apes, tossing cocoa-nuts about, grinning is obvious that the pantomime, when done, and grinned at! will be more easy to decide upon than in "M- was hoaxing you, surely, about proposal. I say, do it by all means. I have my engraving; 'tis a little sixpenny thing, Decker's play by me, if you can filch any- too like by half, in which the draughtsman thing out of it. Miss G-, with her kitten has done his best to avoid flattery. There eyes, is an actress, though she shows it not have been two editions of it, which I think at all; and pupil to the former, whose ges- are all gone, as they have vanished from the tures she mimics in comedy to the disparage- window where they hung, -a print-shop, ment of her own natural manner, which is corner of Great and Little Queen-streets, agreeable. It is funny to see her bridling up Lincoln's Inn Fields, where any London her neck, which is native to F. K.; but there friend of yours may inquire for it; for I am is no setting another's manners upon one's (though you won't understand it) at Enfield shoulders any more than their head. I am Chase. We have been here near three glad you esteem Manning, though you see months, and shall stay two more, if people but his husk or shrine. He discloses not, will let us alone; but they persecute us from save to select worshippers, and will leave the village to village. So, don't direct to Islingworld without any one hardly but me know- ton again, till further notice. I am trying ing how stupendous a creature he is. I am my hand at a drama, in two acts, founded perfecting myself in the 'Ode to Eton Col-on Crabbe's Confidant,' mutatis mutandis. lege' against Thursday, that I may not You like the Odyssey; did you ever read appear unclassic. I have just discovered my 'Adventures of Ulysses,' founded on that it is much better than the 'Elegy.' Chapman's old translation of it? for children or men. Chapman is divine, and my abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divinity. When you come to town I'll show it you. You have well described your old fashioned grand paternal hall. Is it not odd that every one's earliest recollections are of some such place! I had my Blakesware (Blakesmoor in the 'London'). Nothing fills a child's mind like a large old mansion; better if un-or partially-occupied; peopled with the spirits of deceased members of the county, and justices of the quorum. Would I were buried in the peopled solitudes of one, with my feelings at seven years old! Those marble busts of the emperors, they seemed as if they were to stand for ever, as they had stood from the living days of Rome, in that old marble hall, and I too partake of their again, and therefore I do not solicit it as permanency. Eternity was, while I thought from him. Yesterday I sent off my traginot of Time. But he thought of me, and they are toppled down, and corn covers the spot of the noble old dwelling and its princely gardens. I feel like a grasshopper that, chirping about the grounds, escaped the scythe only by my littleness. Even now he is whetting one of his smallest razors to clean wipe me out, perhaps. Well!" The following is an acknowledgment of some verses which Lamb had begged for Miss Isola's album. "Aug. 28th, 1827. comedy to Mr. Kemble. Wish it luck. I made it all ('tis blank verse, and I think of the true old dramatic cut) or most of it, in the green lanes about Enfield, where I am, and mean to remain, in spite of your peremptory doubts on that head. Your refusal to lend your poetical sanction to my 'Icon,' and your reasons to Evans, are most sensible. Maybe I may hit on a line or two of my own jocular; maybe not. Do you never Londonize again? I should like to talk over old poetry with you, of which I have much, and you, I think, little. Do your Drummonds allow no holydays? I would willingly come and work for you a three weeks or so, to let "Dear B. B., I am thankful to you for you loose. Would I could sell or give you your ready compliance with my wishes. some of my leisure! Positively, the best Emma is delighted with your verses; I have thing a man can have to do is nothing, and sent them, with four album poems of my next to that perhaps - good works. I am own, to a Mr. F, who is to be editor of but poorlyish, and feel myself writing a dull a more superb pocket-book than has yet letter; poorlyish from company; not generappeared, by far! the property of some ally, for I never was better, nor took more wealthy booksellers; but whom, or what its walks, fourteen miles a day on an average, name, I forgot to ask. It is actually to have with a sporting dog, Dash. You would not in it school-boy exercises by his present know the plain poet, any more than he doth Majesty and the late Duke of York. Words- recognise James Naylor trick'd out au deser worth is named as a contributor. F-, poy (how do you spell it ?). whom I have slightly seen, is editor of a forthcome or coming review of foreign books, and is intimately connected with Lockhart, &c. So I take it that this is a concern of Murray's. Walter Scott also contributes mainly. I have stood off a long time from these annuals, which are ostentatious trumpery, but could not withstand the request of Jameson, a particular friend of mine and Coleridge. "I shall hate myself in frippery, strutting along, and vying in finery with beaux and belles, with future Lord Byrons and sweet L. E. Ls.' Your taste, I see, is less simple than mine, which the difference in our persuasions has doubtless effected. In fact, of late you have so Frenchified your style, larding it with hors de combats, and au desopoirs, that o' my conscience the Foxian blood is quite dried out of you, and the skipping Monsieur spirit has been infused. "If you have anything you'd like to send further, I dare say an honourable place would be given to it; but I have not heard from since I sent mine, nor shall probably F "C. LAMB." The following was written to the friend to whom Lamb had intrusted Dash, a few days after the parting. TO MR. PATMORE. "Mrs. Leishman's, Chase, Enfield. "Dear P., -Excuse my anxiety, but how is Dash? I should have asked if Mrs. Pe kept her rules, and was improving; but Dash came uppermost. The order of our thoughts should be the order of our writing. Goes he muzzled, or aperto ore? Are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in his conversation? You cannot be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. The first illogical snarl he makes, to St. Luke's with him. All the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the overseers; but I protest they seem to me very rational and collected. But nothing is so deceitful as mad people, to those who are not used to them. Try him with hot water; if a fine he won't lick it up it is a sign — he does not | Chase, Enfield, where, if you come a-hunting, like it. Does his tail wag horizontally, or we can give you cold meat and a tankard. perpendicularly? That has decided the fate Her husband is a tailor; but that, you know, of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general does not make her one. I knew a jailor deportment cheerful? I mean when he is (which rhymes), but his wife was pleased for otherwise there is no judging. lady. You can't be too careful. Has he bit any of "Let us hear from you respecting Mrs. the children yet? If he has, have them shot, P's regimen. I send my love in a and keep him for curiosity, to see if it was to Dash. the hydrophobia. They say all our army in India had it at one time; but that was in "C. LAMB." On the outside of the letter is written: Seriously, I wish you would call upon Hood when you are that way. He's a capital fellow. I've sent him two poems, one ordered by his wife, and written to order; and 'tis a week since, and I've not heard from him. I fear something is the matter. "Our kindest remembrance to Mrs. P." He thus, in December, expresses his misery TO BERNARD BARTON. "December 4th, 1827. Hyder-Ally's time. Do you get paunch for him? Take care the sheep was sane. You might pull out his teeth (if he would let you), and then you need not mind if he were as mad as a Bedlamite. It would be rather fun to see his odd ways. It might amuse Mrs. P— and the children. They'd have more sense than he. He'd be like a fool kept in a family, to keep the household in good humour with their own understanding. You might teach him the mad dance, set to the mad howl. Madge Owlet would be nothing to him. 'My! how he capers!' [In the margin is written, One of the children speaks in a letter. this.*'] * * * What I scratch out is a German quotation, from Lessing, on the bite of rabid animals; but I remember you don't read German. But Mrs. P-may, so I wish I had let it stand. The meaning in English is 'Avoid to approach an animal suspected of madness, as you would avoid fire or a precipice,' which I think is a sensible observation. The Germans are certainly profounder than we. If the slightest suspicion arises in your breast that all is not right with him, muzzle him and lead him in a string (common pack-thread will do- he don't care for twist) to Mr. Hood's, his quondam master, and he'll take him in at any time. You may mention your suspicion, or not, as you like, or as you think it may wound or not Mr. H.'s feelings. Hood, I know, will wink at a few follies in Dash, in "I have not had a Bijoux, nor the slightest consideration of his former sense. Besides, notice from about omitting four out of Hood is deaf, and, if you hinted anything, five of my things. The best thing is never ten to one he would not hear you. Besides to hear of such a thing as a bookseller again, you will have discharged your conscience, or to think there are publishers. Secondand laid the child at the right door, as they say. "We are dawdling our time away very idly and pleasantly at a Mrs. Leishman's, Here three lines are carefully erased. "My dear B. B., -I have scarce spirits to write, yet am harassed with not writing. Nine weeks are completed, and Mary does not get any better. It is perfectly exhausting. Enfield, and everything, is very gloomy. But for long experience I should fear her ever getting well. I feel most thankful for the spinsterly attentions of your sister. Thank the kind knitter in the sun!' What nonsense seems verse, when one is seriously out of hope and spirits! I mean, that at this time I have some nonsense to write, under pain of incivility. Would to the fifth heaven no coxcombess had invented Albums. hand stationers and old book-stalls for me. Authorship should be an idea of the past. Old kings, old bishops, are venerable; all present is hollow. I cannot make a letter. I have no straw, not a pennyworth of chaff, only this may stop your kind importunity to |