girlhood to her coming of age principally, lives again (every important thing, and every trifle) in her brain, with the vividness of real presence. For twelve hours incessantly she will pour out without intermission, all her past life, forgetting nothing, pouring out name after name to the Waldens, as a dream; sense and nonsense; truths and errors huddled together; a medley between inspiration and possession. What things we are! I know you will bear with me, talking of these things. It seems to ease me, for I have nobody to tell these things to now. Emma, I see, has got a harp! and is learning to play. She has framed her three Walton pictures, and pretty they look. That is a book you should read; such sweet religion in it, next to Woolman's! though the subject be baits, and hooks, and worms, and fishes. She has my copy at present, to do two more from.

"Very, very tired! I began this epistle, having been epistolising all the morning, and very kindly would I end it, could I find adequate expressions to your kindness. We did set our minds on seeing you in spring. One of us will indubitably. But I am not skilled in almanac learning, to know when spring precisely begins and ends. Pardon my blots; I am glad you like your book. I wish it had been half as worthy of your acceptance as John Woolman. But 'tis a good-natured book.”

A few days afterwards Lamb's passionate desire to serve a most deserving friend broke out in the following earnest little letter::

"I write from a house of mourning. The oldest and best friends I have left are in trouble. A branch of them (and they of the best stock of God's creatures, I believe) is establishing a school at Carlisle ; her name is L▬▬▬▬▬ M—; her address, 75, Castle Street, Carlisle; her qualities (and her motives for this exertion) are the most amiable, most upright. For thirty years she has been tried by me, and, on her behaviour, I would stake my soul. O, if you can recommend her, how would I love you-if I could love you better! Pray, pray, recommend her. She is as good a human creature,-next to my sister, perhaps, the most exemplary female I ever knew. Moxon tells me you would like a letter from me; you shall have one. I cannot mingle up with any nonsense which you usually tolerate from C. Lamb. Need he add loves to wife, sister, and all? Poor Mary is ill again, after a short lucid interval of four or five months. In short I may call her half dead to me. How good you are to me. Yours with fervour of friendship, for ever,

66

If

This

"C. L.

you want references, the Bishop of Carlisle may be one. L- -'s sister (as good as she, she cannot be better though she tries) educated the daughters of the late Earl of Carnarvon, and he settled a handsome

annuity on her for life. In short, all the family are a sound rock."

A quiet dinner at the British Museum with Mr. Cary once a-month, to which Lamb looked forward with almost boyish eagerness, was now almost his only festival. In a little note to his host about this time, he hints at one of his few physical tastes. We are thinking,' he says, ‘of roast shoulder of mutton with onion sauce, but I scorn to prescribe to the hospitalities of mine host.' The following, after these festivities had been interrupted by Mr. Cary's visit to the Continent, is their last memorial:

TO MR. CARY.

"Sept. 12, 1834.

By Cot's plessing we will not be absence at the

grace."

"DEAR C.,

"We long to see you, and hear account of your peregrinations, of the Tun at Heidelburg, the Clock at Strasburg, the statue at Rotterdam, the dainty Rhenish, and poignant Moselle wines, Westphalian hams, and Botargoes of Altona. But perhaps you have seen, not tasted any of these things.

"Yours, very glad to chain you back again to your proper centre, books, and Bibliothecæ.

66

C. and M. LAMB.

'I have only got your note just now per negligentiam periniqui Moxoni."

The following little note has a mournful interest, as Lamb's last scrap of writing. It is dated on the very day on which erysipelas followed the accident, apparently trifling, which, five days after, terminated in his death. It is addressed to the wife of his oldest surviving friend :

TO MRS. DYER.

"Dec. 22nd, 1834.

"DEAR MRS. DYER,

"I am very uneasy about a Book which I either have lost, or left at your house on Thursday. It was the book I went out to fetch from Miss Buffam's, while the tripe was frying. It is called Phillip's Theatrum Poetarum,' but it is an English book. I think I left it in the parlour. It is Mr. Cary's book, and I would not lose it for the world. Pray, if you find it, book it at the Swan, Snow Hill, by an Edmonton stage immediately, directed to Mr. Lamb, Church Street, Edmonton, or write to say you cannot find it. I am quite anxious about it. If it is lost, I shall never like tripe again.

'With kindest love to Mr. Dyer and all,

"Yours truly,

"C. LAMB."

CHAPTER THE LAST.

LAMB'S WEDNESDAY NIGHTS

COMPARED WITH THE EVENINGS OF HOLLAND HOUSE HIS DEAD COMPANIONS, DYER, GODWIN, THELWALL, HAZLITT, BARNES, HAYDON, COLERIDGE, AND OTHERS-LAST GLIMPSES OF CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.

"Gone; all are gone, the old familiar faces!"

Two circles of rare social enjoyment - differing as widely as possible in all external circumstances—but each superior in its kind to all others, during the same period frankly opened to men of letters-now existing only in the memories of those who are fast departing from us-may, without offence, be placed side by side. in grateful recollection; they are the dinners at Holland House and the suppers of "the Lambs" at the Temple, Great Russell Street, and Islington. Strange, at first, as this juxta-position may seem, a little reflection will convince the few survivors who have enjoyed both, that it involves no injustice to either; while with those who are too young to have been admitted to these rare festivities, we may exercise the privilege of age by boasting what good fellowship was once enjoyed, and what "good talk" there was once in the world!