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Domestic jars, there was I know not what
Of tender feeling that were ill exchang'd

become the minister of a Unitarian congre

For this world's chilling friendships, and their smiles gation at Shrewsbury; a hope of short

Familiar, whom the heart calls strangers still.

A heavy lot hath he, most wretched man,
Who lives the last of all his family!
He looks around him, and his eye discerns

The face of the stranger; and his heart is sick.
Man of the world, what can'st thou do for him?
Wealth is a burthen which he could not bear;
Mirth a strange crime, the which he dares not act;
And generous wines no cordial to his soul.
For wounds like his, Christ is the only cure.
Go! preach thou to him of a world to come,
Where friends shall meet and know each other's face!
Say less than this, and say it to the winds.

An addition to Lamb's household-cares is thus mentioned in a letter

TO MR. COLERIDGE.

"December 10th, 1797.

duration. The following letter was addressed by Lamb to him at this time as "S. T. Coleridge "—as if the Mr. were dropped and the "Reverend" not quite adopted-"at the Reverend A. Rowe's, Shrewsbury, Shropshire." The tables are turned here ;-Lamb, instead of accusing Coleridge of neglect, takes the charge to himself, in deep humility of spirit, and regards the effect of Miss Lamb's renewed illnesses on his mind as inducing indifference, with an affecting selfjealousy.

TO MR. COLERIDGE.

"January 28th, 1798. "You have writ me many kind letters, and I have answered none of them. I don't deserve your attentions. An unnatural indifference has been creeping on me since my last misfortunes, or I should have seized the first opening of a correspondence with you. To you I owe much, under God. In my brief acquaintance with you in London, your conversations won me to the better cause, and rescued me from the polluting spirit of the world. I might have been a worthless character without you; as it is, I do possess a certain improvable portion of devotional feelings, tho' when I view myself in the light of divine truth, and not according to the common measures of human judgment, I am altogether corrupt and sinful. cant. I am very sincere.

This is no

"In truth, Coleridge, I am perplexed, and at times almost cast down. I am beset with perplexities. The old hag of a wealthy relation, who took my aunt off our hands in the beginning of trouble, has found out that she is 'indolent and mulish,' I quote her own words, and that her attachment to us is so strong that she can never be happy apart. The lady, with delicate irony, remarks, that if I am not an hypocrite, I shall rejoice to receive her again; and that it will be a means of making me more fond of home to have so dear a friend to come home to! The fact is, she is jealous of my aunt's bestowing any kind recollections on us, while she enjoys the patronage of her roof. She says she finds it inconsistent with her own ease and tranquillity,' to keep her any longer; and, "These last afflictions, Coleridge, have in fine, summons me to fetch her home. failed to soften and bend my will. They Now, much as I should rejoice to transplant found me unprepared. My former calamities the poor old creature from the chilling air produced in me a spirit of humility and a of such patronage, yet I know how straitened spirit of prayer. I thought they had suffiwe are already, how unable already to answer ciently disciplined me; but the event ought any demand which sickness or any extra- to humble me; if God's judgments now fail ordinary expense may make. I know this, and all unused as I am to struggle with perplexities, I am somewhat nonplussed, to say no worse. This prevents me from a thorough relish of what Lloyd's kindness and your's have furnished me with. I thank you though from my heart, and feel myself not quite

alone in the earth."

to take away from me the heart of stone, what more grievous trials ought I not to expect? I have been very querulous, impatient under the rod-full of little jealousies and heart burnings.-I had well nigh quarrelled with Charles Lloyd-and for no other reason, I believe, than that the good creature did all he could to make me happy. The truth is, I thought he tried to force my mind from its natural and proper bent; he con

In 1798, Coleridge seemed to attain a tinually wished me to be from home, he was settled home by accepting an invitation to drawing me from the consideration of my

compositions in which any methodising is required; but I thank you sincerely for the hint, and shall receive it as far as I am able, that is, endeavour to engage my mind in some constant and innocent pursuit. I know my capacities better than you do.

"Accept my kindest love, and believe me yours, as ever. C. L."

poor dear Mary's situation, rather than retain little of what I read; am unused to assisting me to gain a proper view of it with religious consolations. I wanted to be left to the tendency of my own mind, in a solitary state, which, in times past, I knew had led to quietness and a patient bearing of the yoke. He was hurt that I was not more constantly with him, but he was living with White, a man to whom I had never been accustomed to impart my dearest feelings, tho' from long habits of friendliness, and many a social and good quality, I loved him At this time, the only literary man whom very much. I met company there sometimes Lamb knew in London was George Dyer, -indiscriminate company. Any society who had been noted as an accomplished almost, when I am in affliction, is sorely scholar, in Lamb's early childhood, at Christ's painful to me. I seem to breathe more freely, Hospital. For him Lamb cherished all the to think more collectedly, to feel more pro- esteem that his guileless simplicity of characperly and calmly, when alone. All these ter and gentleness of nature could inspire; things the good creature did with the kindest in these qualities the friends were akin; but intentions in the world, but they produced in no two men could be more opposite than me nothing but soreness and discontent. I they were to each other, in intellectual qualibecame, as he complained, 'jaundiced' to- fications and tastes-Lamb, in all things wards him... but he has forgiven me-and original, and rejoicing in the quaint, the his smile, I hope, will draw all such humours strange, the extravagant; Dyer, the quintfrom me. I am recovering, God be praised essence of learned commonplace; Lamb for it, a healthiness of mind, something like wildly catching the most evanescent spirit of calmness-but I want more religion-I am wit and poetry; Dyer, the wondering disjealous of human helps and leaning-places. ciple of their established forms. Dyer offiI rejoice in your good fortunes. May God ciated as a revering High Priest at the at the last settle you !-You have had many Altar of the Muses-such as they were in and painful trials; humanly speaking they the staid, antiquated trim of the closing years are going to end; but we should rather pray of the eighteenth century, before they formed that discipline may attend us thro' the whole sentimental attachments in Germany, or of our lives. . . . . A careless and a dissolute flirted with revolutionary France, or renewed spirit has advanced upon me with large their youth by drinking the Spirit of the strides-pray God that my present afflictions Lakes. Lamb esteemed and loved him so may be sanctified to me! Mary is recovering; well, that he felt himself entitled to make but I see no opening yet of a situation for sport with his peculiarities; but it was as her; your invitation went to my very heart, Fielding might sport with his own idea of but you have a power of exciting interest, of Parson Adams; or Goldsmith with his leading all hearts captive, too forcible to Dr. Primrose. The following passage occurs admit of Mary's being with you. I consider in a letter of 28th November, 1798, adher as perpetually on the brink of madness. I think, you would almost make her dance within an inch of the precipice; she must be with duller fancies, and cooler intellects. I know a young man of this description, who has suited her these twenty years, and may live to do so still, if we are one day restored to each other. In answer to your suggestions of occupation for me, I must say that I do not think my capacity altogether suited for disquisitions of that kind..... I have read little, I have a very weak memory, and

dressed

TO MR. SOUTHEY.

"I showed my 'Witch,' and 'Dying Lover,' to Dyer last night, but George could not comprehend how that could be poetry which did not go upon ten feet, as George and his predecessors had taught it to do; so George read me some lectures on the distinguishing qualities of the Ode, the Epigram, and the Epic, and went home to illustrate his doctrine, by correcting a proof sheet of his own Lyrics.

George writes odes where the rhymes, like right, that I had power and might equal to fashionable man and wife, keep a comfortable my wishes: then would I call the gentry of distance of six or eight lines apart, and calls thy native island, and they should come in that 'observing the laws of verse.' George troops, flocking at the sound of thy prostells you, before he recites, that you must pectus-trumpet, and crowding who shall be listen with great attention, or you'll miss the first to stand in thy list of subscribers! I rhymes. I did so, and found them pretty can only put twelve shillings into thy pocket exact. George, speaking of the dead Ossian, (which, I will answer for them, will not stick exclaimeth, 'Dark are the poet's eyes.' I there long), out of a pocket almost as bare humbly represented to him that his own eyes as thine. Is it not a pity so much fine were dark, and many a living bard's besides, writing should be erased? But, to tell the and recommended 'Clos'd are the poet's eyes.' truth, I began to scent that I was getting But that would not do. I found there was into that sort of style which Longinus and an antithesis between the darkness of his Dionysius Halicarnassus fitly call 'the eyes and the splendour of his genius; and I affected."" acquiesced."

The following passage on the same subject occurs in a letter about the same time, addressed

TO MR. COLERIDGE.

Lamb's apprehensions of the recurrence of his sister's malady were soon realised. An old maid-servant who assisted her in the lodging became ill; Miss Lamb incessantly watched the death-bed; and just as the poor creature died, was again seized with madness. Lamb placed her under medical care ; and, left alone, wrote the following short and miserable letter:

TO MR. COLERIDGE.

"Now I am on the subject of poetry, I must announce to you, who, doubtless, in your remote part of the island, have not heard tidings of so great a blessing, that George Dyer hath prepared two ponderous volumes full of poetry and criticism. They "May 12th, 1800. impend over the town and are threatened to "My dear Coleridge,—I don't know why fall in the winter. The first volume contains I write, except from the propensity misery every sort of poetry, except personal satire, has to tell her griefs. Hetty died on Friday which George, in his truly original prospectus, night, about eleven o'clock, after eight days' renounceth for ever, whimsically foisting the illness; Mary, in consequence of fatigue and intention in between the price of his book anxiety, is fallen ill again, and I was obliged and the proposed number of subscribers. (If to remove her yesterday. I am left alone in I can, I will get you a copy of his handbill.) a house with nothing but Hetty's dead body He has tried his vein in every species besides to keep me company. To-morrow I bury -the Spenserian, Thomsonian, Masonic and her, and then I shall be quite alone, with Akensidish more especially. The second nothing but a cat, to remind me that the volume is all criticism; wherein he demon- house has been full of living beings like mystrates to the entire satisfaction of the literary self. My heart is quite sunk, and I don't world, in a way that must silence all reply know where to look for relief. Mary will for ever, that the Pastoral was introduced by get better again, but her constantly being Theocritus and polished by Virgil and Pope liable to such relapses is dreadful; nor is it -that Gray and Mason (who always hunt in the least of our evils that her case and all couples in George's brain) have a good deal our story is so well known around us. We are of poetical fire and true lyric genius-that in a manner marked. Excuse my troubling Cowley was ruined by excess of wit (a you, but I have nobody by me to speak to warning to all moderns)—that Charles Lloyd, me. I slept out last night, not being able to Charles Lamb, and William Wordsworth, in endure the change and the stillness. But I later days, have struck the true chords of did not sleep well, and I must come back to poesy. O George, George! with a head my own bed. I am going to try and get a uniformly wrong, and a heart uniformly friend to come and be with me to-morrow.

I am completely shipwrecked. My head is house)-to come and lodge with him, at his quite bad. I almost wish that Mary were dead.-God bless you. Love to Sara and Hartley.-Monday. C. LAMB."

The prospect of obtaining a residence more suited to the peculiar exigencies of his situation than that which he then occupied at Pentonville, gave Lamb comfort, which he expressed in the following short letter:

house in Southampton Buildings, Chancerylane. This was a very comfortable offer to me, the rooms being at a reasonable rent, and including the use of an old servant, besides being infinitely preferable to ordinary lodgings in our case, as you must perceive. As Gutch knew all our story and the perpetual liability to a recurrence in my sister's disorder, probably to the end of her life, I certainly think the offer very generous and very friendly. I have got three rooms (including servant) under 347. a year. Here I soon found myself at home; and here, in six "Dear Manning,-I feel myself unable to weeks after, Mary was well enough to join thank you sufficiently for your kind letter. me. So we are once more settled. I am It was doubly acceptable to me, both for the afraid we are not placed out of the reach of choice poetry and the kind honest prose future interruptions. But I am determined which it contained. It was just such a letter to take what snatches of pleasure we can as I should have expected from Manning. between the acts of our distressful drama.

TO MR. MANNING.

4 1800.

family. The sight of the Bodleian Library, and, above all, a fine bust of Bishop Taylor, at All Souls', were particularly gratifying to me; unluckily, it was not a family where I could take Mary with me, and I am afraid there is something of dishonesty in any pleasures I take without her. She never goes anywhere. I do not know what I can add to this letter. I hope you are better by this time; and I desire to be affectionately remembered to Sarah and Hartley.

"I am in much better spirits than when I. . . . I have passed two days at Oxford, on wrote last. I have had a very eligible offer to a visit which I have long put off, to Gutch's lodge with a friend in town. He will have rooms to let at midsummer, by which time I hope my sister will be well enough to join me. It is a great object to me to live in town, where we shall be much more private, and to quit a house and a neighbourhood where poor Mary's disorder, so frequently recurring, has made us a sort of marked people. We can be nowhere private except in the midst of London. We shall be in a family where we visit very frequently; only my landlord and I have not yet come to a conclusion. He has a partner to consult. I am still on the tremble, for I do not know where we could go into lodgings that would not be, in many respects, highly exceptionable. Only God send Mary well again, and I hope all will be well! The prospect, such as it is, has made me quite happy. I have just time to tell you of it, as I know it will give you pleasure.Farewell. C. LAMB."

This hope was accomplished, as appears from the following letter :

TO MR. COLERIDGE.

"1800.

"Dear Coleridge,-Soon after I wrote to you last, an offer was made me by Gutch (you must remember him, at Christ's,-you saw him, slightly, one day with Thomson at our

"I expected before this to have had tidings of another little philosopher. Lloyd's wife is on the point of favouring the world.

"Have you seen the new edition of Burns? his posthumous works and letters? I have only been able to procure the first volume, which contains his life-very confusedly and badly written, and interspersed with dull pathological and medical discussions. It is written by a Dr. Currie. Do you know the well-meaning doctor? Alas, ne sutor ultra crepidam!

"I hope to hear again from you very soon. Godwin is gone to Ireland on a visit to Grattan. Before he went I passed much time with him, and he has showed me particular attention: N.B. A thing I much like. Your books are all safe: only I have not thought it necessary to fetch away your last batch, which I understand are at Johnson's, the bookseller, who has got quite as

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Ir would seem from the letters of 1800, that the natural determination of Lamb "to take what pleasure he could between the acts of his distressful drama," had led him into a wider circle of companionship, and had prompted sallies of wilder and broader mirth, which afterwards softened into delicacy, retaining all its whim. The following passage, which concludes a letter to Manning, else occupied with merely personal details, proves that his apprehensions for the diminution of his reverence for sacred things were not wholly unfounded; while, amidst its grotesque expressions, may be discerned the repugnance to the philosophical infidelity of some of his companions he retained through life. The passage, may, perhaps, be regarded as a sort of desperate compromise between a wild gaiety and religious impressions obscured but not effaced; and intimating his disapprobation of infidelity, with a melancholy sense of his own unworthiness seriously to express it.

TO MR. MANNING.

"Coleridge inquires after you pretty often. I wish to be the pandar to bring you together again once before I die. When we die, you and I must part; the sheep, you know, take the right hand, and the goats the left. Stripped of its allegory, you must know, the sheep are 1, and the Apostles and the Martyrs, and the Popes, and Bishop Taylor and Bishop Horsley, and Coleridge, &c. &c.; the goats are the Atheists and the Adulterers, and dumb dogs, and Godwin and M..... g, and that Thyestaan crew-yaw! how my saintship sickens at the idea!

"You shall have my play and the Falstaff letters in a day or two. I will write to Lloyd by this day's post.

"God bless you, Manning. Take my trifling as trifling—and believe me seriously and deeply your well-wisher and friend, "C. LAMB."

In the following letter Lamb's fantastic spirits find scope freely, though in all kindness, in the peculiarities of the learned and good George Dyer :

TO MR. MANNING.

"August 22nd, 1800. "Dear Manning,-You needed not imagine any apology necessary. Your fine hare and fine birds (which just now are dangling by our kitchen blaze), discourse most eloquent music in your justification. You just nicked my palate. For, with all due decorum and leave may it be spoken, my worship hath taken physic to-day, and being low and puling, requireth to be pampered. Foh! how beautiful and strong those buttered onions come to my nose. For you must know we extract a divine spirit of gravy from those materials, which, duly compounded with a consistence of bread and cream (y'clept breadsauce), each to each, giving double grace, do mutually illustrate and set off (as skilful goldfoils to rare jewels) your partridge, pheasant, woodcock, snipe, teal, widgeon, and the other lesser daughters of the ark. My friendship, struggling with my carnal and fleshly prudence (which suggests that a bird a man is the proper allotment in such cases), yearneth sometimes to have thee here to pick a wing or so. I question if your Norfolk sauces match our London culinaric.

66

George Dyer has introduced me to the table of an agreeable old gentleman, Dr. A-, who gives hot legs of mutton and grape pies at his sylvan lodge at Isleworth ; where, in the middle of a street, he has shot up a wall most preposterously before his small dwelling, which, with the circumstance of his taking several panes of glass out of bedroom windows (for air) causeth his neighbours to speculate strangely on the state of the good man's pericranicks. Plainly, he lives under the reputation of being deranged. George does not mind this circumstance; he rather likes him the better for it.

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