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poor Mary; I would to God all did so too. imagery, Hartley's five Motives to Conduct: But I very much fear she must not think of -1. Sensation ; 2. Imagination ; 3. Ambicoming home in my father's lifetime. It is tion; 4. Sympathy; 5. Theopathy First. very hard upon her ; but our circumstances Banquets, music, &c., effeminacy,—and their are peculiar, and we must submit to them. insufficiency. Second. ' Beds of hyacinth and God be praised she is so well as she is. She roses, where young Adonis oft reposes ;' bears her situation as one who has no right 'Fortunate Isles ;' The pagan Elysium,' to complain. My poor old aunt, whom you &c.; poetical pictures ; antiquity as pleasing have seen, the kindest, goodest creature to to the fancy ;-—their emptiness; madness, me when I was at school ; who used to &c. Third. Warriors, Poets; some famous toddle there to bring me good things, when I, yet, more forgotten ; their fame or oblivion school-boy like, only despised her for it, and now alike indifferent ; pride, vanity, &c. used to be ashamed to see her come and sit Fourth. All manner of pitiable stories, in herself down on the old coal-hole steps as you Spenser-like verse; love; friendship, relawent into the old grammar-school, and open tionship, &c. Fifth. Hermits ; Christ and her apron, and bring out her bason, with his apostles; martyrs; heaven, &c. An some nice thing she had caused to be saved imagination like yours, from these scanty for me ; the good old creature is now lying hints, may expand into a thousand great on her death-bed. I cannot bear to think ideas, if indeed you at all comprehend my on her deplorable state. To the shock she scheme, which I scarce do myself. received on that our evil day, from which “Monday morn.—' A London letter—Nineshe never completely recovered, I impute pence half-penny!' Look you, master poet, her illness. She says, poor thing, she is glad I have remorse as well as another man, and she is come home to die with me. I was my bowels can sound
occasion. But I always her favourite :
must put you to this charge, for I cannot * No after friendship e'er can raise
keep back my protest, however ineffectual, The endearments of our early days;
against the annexing your latter lines to Nor e'er the heart such fondness prove,
those former-this putting of new wine into As when it first began to love.'
old bottles. This my duty done, I will cease “Lloyd has kindly left me, for a keep-sake, from writing till you invent some more "John Woolman.' You have read it, he says, reasonable mode of conveyance. Well may and like it. Will you excuse one short ex- the ragged followers of the Nine !' set up tract ? I think it could not have escaped for flocci-nauci-what-do-you-call-'em-ists! and you.—Small treasure to a resigned mind is I do not wonder that in their splendid visions sufficient. How happy is it to be content of Utopias in America, they protest against with a little, to live in humility, and feel that the admission of those yellow-complexioned, in us, which breathes out this language- copper-coloured, white-livered gentlemen, who Abba! Father!'- I am almost ashamed never prove themselves their friends! Don't to patch up a letter in this miscellaneous sort you think your verses on a ‘Young Ass' -but I please myself in the thought, that too trivial a companion for the ‘Religious anything from me will be acceptable to you. Musings ?'—'scoundrel monarch,' alter that; I am rather impatient, childishly so, to see and the 'Man of Ross' is scarce admissible, our names affixed to the same common as it now stands, curtailed of its fairer half: volume. Send me two, when it does come reclaim its property from the Chatterton,' out; two will be enough—or indeed one, which it does but encumber, and it will be but two better. I have a dim recollection a rich little poem. I hope you expunge that, when in town, you were talking of the great part of the old notes in the new ediOrigin of Evil as a most prolific subject for a tion: that, in particular, most barefaced, long poem ;-why not adopt it, Coleridge ? unfounded, impudent assertion, that Mr. —there would be room for imagination. Or Rogers is indebted for his story to Loch the description (from a Vision or Dream, Lomond, a poem by Bruce! I have read suppose) of an Utopia in one of the planets the latter. I scarce think you have. Scarce (the moon for instance.) Or a Five Days' anything is common to them both. The Dream, which shall illustrate, in sensible author of the ‘Pleasures of Memory' was
somewhat hurt, Dyer says, by the accusation was given; at all events, the result was, that of unoriginality. He never saw the poem. she left the asylum and took up her abode I long to read your poem on Burns—I retain for life with her brother Charles. For her so indistinct a memory of it. In what shape sake, at the same time, he abandoned all and how does it come into public? As you thoughts of love and marriage ; and with an leave off writing poetry till you finish your income of scarcely more than 1001. a-year, Hymns, I suppose you print, now, all you derived from his clerkship, aided for a little have got by you. You have scarce enough while by the old aunt's small annuity, set unprinted to make a second volume with out on the journey of life at twenty-two Lloyd ? Tell me all about it.
What is years of age, cheerfully, with his beloved become of Cowper ? Lloyd told me of some companion, endeared to him the more by her Ferses on his mother. If you have them by strange calamity, and the constant appreFou, pray send 'em me. I do so love him ! hension of a recurrence of the malady which Never mind their merit. May be I may had caused it ! like 'em, as your taste and mine do not always exactly identify. Yours,
“ C. LAMB."
YEARS OF LIFE WITH HIS SISTER.
Soon after the date of this letter, death
CHAPTER III. released the father from his state of imbe- LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND MANNING IN LAMB'S FIRST cility and the son from his wearisome duties. With his life, the annuity he had derived
[1797 to 1800.] from the old bencher he had served so faith THE anxieties of Lamb's new position were fully, ceased; while the aunt continued to assuaged during the spring of 1797, by frelinger still with Lamb in his cheerless quent communications with Coleridge relodging. His sister still remained in con- specting the anticipated volume, and by some finement in the asylum to which she had additions to his own share in its pages. He been consigned on her mother's death—per- was also cheered by the company of Lloyd, fectly sensible and calm, and he was pas- who, having resided for a few months with sionately desirous of obtaining her liberty. Coleridge, at Stowey, came to London in The surviving members of the family, espe- some perplexity as to his future course. Of cially his brother John, who enjoyed a fair this visit Lamb speaks in the following letter, income in the South Sea House, opposed her probably written in January. It contains discharge ;--and painful doubts were sug- some verses expressive of his delight at gested by the authorities of the parish, where Lloyd's visit, which, although afterwards the terrible occurrence happened, whether inserted in the volume, are so well fitted to they were not bound to institute proceedings, their frame-work of prose, and so indicative which must have placed her for life at the of the feelings of the writer at this crisis of disposition of the Crown, especially as no his life, that I may be excused for presenting medical assurance could be given against the them with the context. probable recurrence of dangerous frenzy. But Charles came to her deliverance; he satisfied all the parties who had power to
“ 1797. oppose her release, by his solemn engagement Dear Col,-You have learned by this that he would take her under his care for time, with surprise, no doubt, that Lloyd is life ; and he kept his word. Whether any with me in town. The emotions I felt on his communication with the Home Secretary coming so unlooked-for, are not ill expressed occurred before her release, I have been in what follows, and what, if you do not unable to ascertain ; it was the impression object to them as too personal, and to the of Mr. Lloyd, from whom my own knowledge world obscure, or otherwise wanting in of the circumstances, which the letters do worth, I should wish to make a part of not ascertain, was derived, that a communi- our little volume. I shall be sorry if that cation took place, on which a similar pledge volume comes out, as it necessarily must do,
TO MR. COLERIDGE.
unless you print those very schoolboy-ish you all. Lloyd takes up his abode at the verses I sent you on not getting leave to Bull and Mouth Inn ; the Cat and Salutation come down to Bristol last summer. I say I would have had a charm more forcible for shall be sorry that I have addressed you in me. O noctes cænæque Deúm ! Anglice - 1 nothing which can appear in our joint Welch rabbits, punch, and poesy. Should volume ; so frequently, so habitually, as you you be induced to publish those very schooldwell in my thoughts, 'tis some wonder those boy-ish verses, print 'em as they will occur, thoughts came never yet in contact with a if at all, in the Monthly Magazine ; yet I poetical mood. But you dwell in my heart should feel ashamed that to you I wrote of hearts, and I love you in all the naked nothing better: but they are too personal, honesty of prose. God bless you, and all and almost trifling and obscure withal. your little domestic circle — my tenderest Some lines of mine to Cowper were in last remembrances to your beloved Sara, and a Monthly Magazine ; they have not body of sinile and a kiss from me to your dear dear thought enough to plead for the retaining of little David Hartley. The verses I refer to 'em. My sister's kind love to you all. above, slightly amended, I have sent (for
“C. LAMB." getting to ask your leave, tho' indeed I gave them only your initials), to the Monthly Magazine, where they may possibly appear It would seem, from the following fragnext month, and where I hope to recognise ment of a letter of 7th April, 1797, that your poem on Burns.
Lamb, at first, took a small lodging for his sister apart from his own-but soon to be 1
TO MR. COLERIDGE.
for life united. CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
Alone, obscure, without a friend,
“By the way, Lloyd may have told you Why seeks my Lloyd the stranger out ? What offering can the stranger bring
about my sister. I told him. If not, I have
taken her out of her confinement, and taken Of social scenes, home-bred delights, That him in aught compensate may
a room for her at Hackney, and spend my For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,
Sundays, holidays, &c. with her. She boards For loves and friendships far away,
herself. In one little half year's illness, and I In brief oblivion to forego
in such an illness of such a nature and of Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,
such consequences ! to get her out into the And be awhile with me content To stay, a kindly loiterer, here?
world again, with a prospect of her never
being so ill again—this is to be ranked not For this a gleam of random joy Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd check;
among the common blessings of Providence.” And, with an o'er-charged bursting heart,
I feel the thanks, I cannot speak. 0! sweet are all the Muse's lays,
The next letter to Coleridge begins with a And sweet the charm of matin bird'Twas long, since these estranged ears
transcript of Lamb's Poem, entitled “A The sweeter voice of friend had heard. Vision of Repentance,” which was inserted
in the Addenda to the volume, and is preThe voice hath spoke : the pleasant sounds In memory's ear, in after time
served among his collected poems, and thus Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
TO MR. COLERIDGE.
“ April 15th, 1797. To cheerless, friendless solitude
“ The above you will please to print immeWhen I return, as heretofore
diately before the blank verse fragments. Long, long, within my aching heart
Tell me if you like it. I fear the latter half The grateful sense shall cherish'd be ;
is unequal to the former, in parts of which I'll think less meanly of myself, That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.
I think you will discover a delicacy of
pencilling not quite un-Spenser-like. The “O Coleridge, would to God you were in latter half aims at the measure, but has London with us, or we two at Stowey with failed to attain the poetry of Milton in his
Comus,' and Fletcher in that exquisite If so, say so. I long, I yearn, with all the thing ycleped the 'Faithful Shepherdess,' longings of a child do I desire to see you, to where they both use eight-syllable lines. come among you—to see the young philoBut this latter half was finished in great sopher, to thank Sara for her last year's haste, and as a task, not from that impulse invitation in person—to read your tragedy which affects the name of inspiration. —to read over together our little book-to
“By the way, I have lit upon Fairfax's breathe fresh air—to revive in me vivid Godfrey of Bullen,' for half-a-crown. Re- images of 'Salutation scenery.' There is a joice with me.
sort of sacrilege in my letting such ideas slip “Poor dear Lloyd! I had a letter from out of my mind and memory. Still that him yesterday; his state of mind is truly R- - remaineth—a
-a thorn in the side of alarming. He has, by his own confession, Hope, when she would lean towards Stowey. kept a letter of mine unopened three weeks, Here I will leave off, for I dislike to fill up afraid, he says, to open it, lest I should speak this paper, which involves a question so conupbraidingly to him; and yet this very nected with my heart and soul, with meaner letter of mine was in answer to one, wherein matter or subjects to me less interesting. he informed me that an alarming illness had I can talk, as I can think, nothing else. alone prevented him from writing. You will Thursday.
C. LAMB." pray with me, I know, for his recovery, for surely, Coleridge, an exquisiteness of feeling like this must border on derangement. But The visit was enjoyed ; the book was I love him more and more, and will not give published ; and Lamb was once more left to up the hope of his speedy recovery, as he the daily labours of the India House and the tells me he is under Dr. Darwin's regimen.* unceasing anxieties of his home. His feelings,
“God bless us all, and shield us from in- on the recurrence of the season, which had, sanity, which is 'the sorest malady of all.' last year, been darkened by his terrible “My kind love to your wife and child. calamity, will be understood from the first
“ C. LAMB. of two pieces of blank verse, which fill the “Pray write now.”
two first sheets of a letter to Coleridge, written under an apprehension of some
neglect on the part of his friend, which had As summer advanced, Lamb discerned a its cause in no estrangement of Coleridge's hope of compensation for the disappointment affections, but in the vicissitudes of the of last year, by a visit to Coleridge, and thus imaginative philosopher's fortune and the expressed his wishes.
constancy of his day-dreamings.
TO MR. COLERIDGE.
WRITTEN A TWELVEMONTH AFTER THE “ I discern a possibility of my paying you
EVENTS. a visit next week. May I, can I, shall I, (Friday next, Coleridge, is the day on which my mother
died.) come as soon ? Have you room for me,
Alas! how am I chang'd! where be the tears, leisure for me, and are you all pretty well ?
The sobs, and forc'd suspensions of the breath, Tell me all this honestly-immediately. And And all the dull desertions of the heart
With which I hung o'er my dear mother's corse ? by what day-coach could I come soonest and
Where be the blest subsidings of the storm nearest to Stowey? A few months hence Within ; the sweet resignedness of hope may suit you better ; certainly me, as well. Drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love,
In which I bow'd me to my Father's will?
My God and my Redeemer, keep not thou Poor Charles Lloyd! These apprehensions were My heart in brute and sensual thanklessness sadly realised. Delusions of the most melancholy kind Seal'd up, oblivious ever of that dear grace, thickened over his latter days—yet left his admirable And health restor'd to my long-loved friend. intellect free for the finest processes of severe reasoning. Long lov'd, and worthy known! Thou didst not keep At a time when, like Cowper, he believed himself the Her soul in death. O keep not now, my Lord, especial subject of Divine wrath, he could bear his part Thy servants in far worse-in spiritual death in the most subtle disquisition on questions of religion, And darkness-blacker than those feared shadows morals, and poetry, with the nicest accuracy of percep- O'the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms, tion and the most exemplary candour; and, after an Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul, argument of hours, revert, with a faint smile, to his And heal our cleansed bosoms of the wounds own despair!
With which the world hath pierc'd us thro' and thro'!
Give us new flesh, new birth; Elect of heaven
“ The former of these poems I wrote with May we become, in thine election sure Contain'd, and to one purpose stedfast drawn
unusual celerity t'other morning at office. Our souls' salvation.
I expect you to like it better than anything Thou and I, dear friend,
of mine ; Lloyd does, and I do myself. With filial recognition sweet, shall know One day the face of our dear mother in heaven,
“You use Lloyd very ill, never writing to And her remember'd looks of love shall greet him. I tell you again that his is not a mind With answering looks of love, her placid smiles Meet with a smile as placid, and her hand
with which you should play tricks. He With drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse.* deserves more tenderness from you. Be witness for me, Lord, I do not ask “For myself, I must spoil a little
passage Those days of vanity to return again,
of Beaumont and Fletcher to adapt it to my (Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give),
feelings :Vain loves, and “wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid :" (Child of the dust as I am,) who so long
. I am prouder My foolish heart steep'd in idolatry,
That I was once your friend, tho' now forgot, And creature-loves. Forgive it, O my Maker!
Than to have had another true to me.' If in a mood of grief, I sin almost In sometimes brooding on the days long past, If you don't write to me now, as I told (And from the grave of time wishing them back,)
Lloyd, I shall get angry, and call you hard Days of a mother's fondness to her childHer little one! Oh, where be now those sports names-Manchineel and I don't know what I And infant play-games? Where the joyous troops else. I wish you would send me my greatOf children, and the haunts I did so love? O my companions ! O ye loved names
coat. The snow and the rain season is at Of friend, or playmate dear, gone are ye now. hand, and I have but a wretched old coat, Gone divers ways; to honour and credit some;
once my father's, to keep 'em off, and that is, And some, I fear, to ignominy and shame! 1 I only am left, with unavailing grief
transitory. One parent dead to mourn, and see one live Of all life's joys bereft, and desolate :
• When time drives flocks from field to fold, Am left, with a few friends, and one above
When ways grow foul and blood gets cold,'
I shall remember where I left my coat,
Meet emblem wilt thou be, old Winter, of a friend's neglect-cold, cold, cold !
| “The following I wrote when I had re
“C. LAMB." turned from C. Lloyd, leaving him behind at Burton, with Southey. To understand some of it, you must remember that at that time The following lines, which Lamb transhe was very much perplexed in mind. mitted to his new friend Southey, bespeak A stranger, and alone, I past those scenes
the remarkable serenity with which, when We past so late together; and my heart
the first shock was over and the duties Felt something like desertion, as I look'd Around me, and the pleasant voice of friend
of life-long love arranged, Lamb was able Was absent, and the cordial look was there
to contemplate the victim of his sister's No more, to smile on me. I thought on Lloyd
frenzy: All he had been to me! And now I go Again to mingle with a world impure;
Thou should'st have longer lived, and to the grave With men who make a mock of holy things,
Have peacefully gone down in full old age; Mistaken, and of man's best hope think scorn.
Thy children would have tended thy gray hairs. The world does much to warp the heart of man;
We might have sat, as we have often done, And I may sometimes join its idiot laugh :
By our fire-side, and talk'd whole nights away, of this I now complain not.
Deal with me,
oid time, old friends, and old events recalling, Omniscient Father, as thou judgest best,
With many a circumstance of trivial note, And in thy scason' soften thou my heart.
To memory dear, and of importance groen.
How shall we tell them in a stranger's car!
A wayward son oft-times was I to thee;
And yet, in all our little bickerings,
These lines are now first introduced in this Edition ;
--becoming known to the Editor by their publication in [Note in the margin of MS.] “ This is almost the first volume of “Southey's Life and Correspondence," literal from a letter of my sister's-less than a year p. 325, where they appear in a letter from Souther to ago."
Mr. Wynn. The Biographer courteously adds, that they † (Note in the margin of MS.) “ Alluding to some would have been sent to the Editor, but that they were of my old play-fellows being, literally, 'on the town,' not observed till after the publication of the First Edition and some otherwise wretched."
of these Memorials,