honour him. "C. L." "I had almost forgot to say, I think you thoroughly right about presentation copies. I should like to see you print a book I should grudge to purchase for its size. Hang me, but I would have it though! I send you a frozen epistle, pardon me if I stop somewhere-where the fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity, there my friends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs, and I myself therein am nearest to myself. Nay, I should think it an affront, an undervaluing done to Nature who bestowed such a boon upon me, if in a churlish mood I parted with the precious gift. One of the bitterest pangs I ever felt of remorse was when a child—my kind old aunt had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny whole plum-cake upon me. In my way home through the Borough, I met a venerable old man, not a mendicant, -but thereabouts; a look-beggar, not a verbal petitionist; and in the coxcombry of taught-charity, I gave away the cake to him. I walked on a little in all the pride of an Evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed me; the sum it was to her; the pleasure she had a right to expect that I-not the old impostor-should take in eating her cake; the cursed ingratitude by which, under the colour of a Christian virtue, I had frustrated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, wept, and took it to heart so grievously, that I think I never suffered the like—and I was right. It was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to me ever after. The cake has long been masticated, consigned to dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper. The following letter, containing the germ of the well-known "Dissertation on Roast Pig," was addressed to Coleridge, who had received a pig as a present, and attributed it erroneously to Lamb. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Dear C.,-It gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so well-they are interesting creatures at a certain agewhat a pity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! You had all some of the crackling—and brain sauce-did you remember to rub it with butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before the crisis? Did the eyes come away kindly with no Edipean avulsion? Was the crackling the colour of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no cursed complement of boiled neck of mutton before it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire? Did you flesh maiden teeth in it? Not that I sent the pig, or can form the remotest guess what part 0— could play in the business. I never knew him give anything away in my life. He would not begin with strangers. I suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me; but at the unlucky juncture of time being absent, the present somehow went round to Highgate. To confess an honest truth, a pig is one of those things I could never think of sending away. Teals, wigeons, snipes, barn-door fowl, ducks, geese-your tame villatic things -Welsh mutton, collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your potted char, Swiss cheeses, French pies, early grapes, muscadines, I impart as freely unto my friends as to myself. They are but self-extended; but C. LAMB." seethed, plain, with parsley and butter, would "Our joint hearty remembrances to both have been the decision of Apicius. Paris is of you. Yours, as ever, a glorious picturesque old city. London looks mean and new to it, as the town of Washington would, seen after it. But they have no St. Paul's, or Westminster Abbey. The Seine, so much despised by Cockneys, is exactly the size to run through a magnificent street; palaces a mile long on one side, lofty Edinbro' stone (O the glorious antiques!) houses on the other. The Thames disunites London and Southwark. I had Talma to supper with me. He has picked up, as I believe, an authentic portrait of Shakspeare. He paid a broker about 40%. English for it. It is painted on the one half of a pair of bellows a lovely picture, corresponding with the folio head. The bellows has old carved wings round it, and round the visnomy is inscribed, as near as I remember, not divided into rhyme-I found out the rhyme Whom have we here But the Prince of good fellows, At top O base and coward luck! To be here stuck.-POINS. At bottom Nay! rather a glorious lot is to him assign'd, ́ PISTOL. "This is all in old carved wooden letters. The countenance smiling, sweet, and intellectual beyond measure, even as he was immeasurable. It may be a forgery. They laugh at me and tell me, Ireland is in Paris, and has been putting off a portrait of the Black Prince. How far old wood may be imitated I cannot say. Ireland was not found out by his parchments, but by his poetry. I am confident no painter on either side the Channel could have painted any thing near like the face I saw. Again, would such a painter and forger have taken 407. for a thing, if authentic, worth 40007.? Talma is not in the secret, for he had not even found out the rhymes in the first inscription. He is coming over with it, and, my life to Southey's Thalaba, it will gain universal faith. "The letter is wanted, and I am wanted. Imagine the blank filled up with all kind things Soon after Lamb's return from Paris he became acquainted with the poet of the Quakers, Bernard Barton, who, like himself, was engaged in the drudgery of figures. The pure and gentle tone of the poems of his new acquaintance was welcome to Lamb, who had more sympathy with the truth of nature in modest guise than in the affected fury of Lord Byron, or the dreamy extravagancies of Shelley. Lamb had written in "Elia" of the Society of Friends with the freedom of one, who, with great respect for the principles of the founders of their faith, had little in common with a sect who shunned the pleasures while they mingled in the business of the world; and a friendly expostulation on the part of Mr. Barton led to such cordial excuses as completely won the heart of the Quaker bard. Some expression which Lamb let fall at their meeting in London, from which Mr. Barton had supposed that Lamb objected to a Quaker's writing poetry as inconsistent with his creed, induced Mr. Barton to write to Lamb on his return to Woodbridge, who replied as follows: TO BERNARD BARTON. "India House, 11th Sept. 1822. "Dear Sir,-You have misapprehended me sadly, if you suppose that I meant to impute any inconsistency in your writing poetry with your religious profession. I do not remember what I said, but it was spoken sportively, I am sure-one of my levities, which you are not so used to as my older friends. I probably was thinking of the light in which your so indulging yourself would appear to Quakers, and put their objection in my own foolish mouth. I would eat my words (provided they should be written on not very coarse paper) rather than I would throw cold water upon your, and my once, harmless occupation. "I have read Napoleon and the rest with delight. I like them for what they are, and for what they are not. I have sickened on the modern rhodomontade and Byronism, and your plain Quakerish beauty has captivated me. It is all wholesome cates, ay, and toothsome too, and withal Quakerish. If I were George Fox, and George Fox licenser I of the press, they should have my absolute it will satisfy the bigots on our side the imprimatur. I hope I have removed the impression. water. Something like a parody on the song of Ariel would please them better :— "I am, like you, a prisoner to the desk. I 'Who first invented work, and bound the free Of business, in the green fields and the town, "I fancy the sentiment exprest above will be nearly your own. The expression of it probably would not so well suit with a follower of John Woolman. But I do not know whether diabolism is a part of your creed, or where, indeed, to find an exposition of your creed at all. In feelings and matters not dogmatical, I hope I am half a Quaker. Believe me, with great respect, yours, "C. LAMB." "I shall always be happy to see or hear from you." Encouraged by Lamb's kindness, Mr. Barton continued the correspondence, which became the most frequent in which Lamb had engaged for many years. The following letter is in acknowledgment of a publication of Mr. Barton's chiefly directed to oppose the theories and tastes of Lord Byron and his friends: TO BERNARD BARTON. "East-India House, 9th Oct. 1822. 'Full fathom five the Atheist lies, "I want time, or fancy, to fill up the rest. sincerely sympathise with you on your doleful confinement. Of time, health, and riches, the first in order is not last in excellence. Riches are chiefly good, because they give us Time. What a weight of wearisome prison hours have I to look back and forward to, as quite cut out of life! and the sting of the thing is, that for six hours every day I have no business which I could not contract into two, if they would let me work taskwork. I shall be glad to hear that your grievance is mitigated. "I am returning a poor letter. I was formerly a great scribbler in that way, but my hand is out of order. If I said my head too, I should not be very much out, but I will tell no tales of myself; I will therefore end (after my best thanks, with a hope to see you again some time in London), begging you to accept this letteret for a letter-a leveret makes a better present than a grown hare, and short troubles (as the old excuse goes) are best. "I remain, dear sir, yours truly, The next letter will speak for itself. TO BERNARD BARTON. "Dec. 23rd, 1822. "Dear Sir, I have been so distracted with business and one thing or other, I have not had a quiet quarter of an hour for epistolary purposes. Christmas, too, is come, which always puts a rattle into my morning skull. It is a visiting, unquiet, unquakerish season. I get more and more in love with solitude, and proportionately hampered with company. I hope you have some holidays at this period. I have one day-Christmas-day; alas! too few to commemorate the season. All work and no play dulls me. Company is not play, but many times hard work. To play, is for a man to do what he pleases, or to do nothing "Dear Sir, I am ashamed not sooner to have acknowledged your letter and poem. Ito go about soothing his particular fancies. think the latter very temperate, very serious, and very seasonable. I do not think it will convert the club at Pisa, neither do I think I have lived to a time of life to have outlived the good hours, the nine o'clock suppers, with a bright hour or two to clear up in after wards. Now you cannot get tea before that life he was about to write. The renewal of hour, and then sit gaping, music-bothered the acquaintance was very pleasant to Lamb; perhaps, till half-past twelve brings up the who many years before used to take daily tray; and what you steal of convivial enjoy- walks with Wilson, and to call him "brother." ment after, is heavily paid for in the disquiet The following is Lamb's reply :of to-morrow's head. "I am pleased with your liking 'John Woodvil,' and amused with your knowledge of our drama being confined to Shakspeare and Miss Baillie. What a world of fine territory between Land's End and Johnny Groat's have you missed traversing! I could almost envy you to have so much to read. I feel as if I had read all the books I want to read. Oh to forget Fielding, Steele, &c., and read 'ein new! TO MR. WALTER WILSON. "E. I. H., 16th December, 1822. "Dear Wilson,-Lightning, I was going to call you. You must have thought me negligent in not answering your letter sooner. But I have a habit of never writing letters but at the office; 'tis so much time cribbed out of the Company; and I am but just got out of the thick of a tea-sale, in which most of the entry of notes, deposits, &c., usually falls to my share. "Can you tell me a likely place where I could pick up, cheap, Fox's Journal? There "I have nothing of De Foe's but two or are no Quaker circulating libraries? Elwood, three novels, and the Plague History.' I too, I must have. I rather grudge that can give you no information about him. As Sy has taken up the history of your a slight general character of what I remempeople: I am afraid he will put in some ber of them (for I have not looked into them levity. I am afraid I am not quite exempt latterly), I would say that in the appearance from that fault in certain magazine articles, of truth, in all the incidents and conversations where I have introduced mention of them. that occur in them, they exceed any works Were they to do again, I would reform them. of fiction I am acquainted with. It is perfect Why should not you write a poetical account illusion. The author never appears in these of your old worthies, deducing them from self-narratives (for so they ought to be Fox to Woolman? but I remember you did called, or rather auto-biographies), but the talk of something of that kind, as a counter-narrator chains us down to an implicit belief part to the Ecclesiastical Sketches.' But in everything he says. There is all the would not a poem be more consecutive than minute detail of a log-book in it. Dates are a string of sonnets? You have no martyrs painfully pressed upon the memory. Facts quite to the fire, I think, among you; but are repeated over and over in varying plenty of heroic confessors, spirit-martyrs, phrases, till you cannot choose but believe lamb-lions. Think of it; it would be better them. It is like reading evidence given in a than a series of sonnets on 'Eminent Bankers.' court of justice. So anxious the story-teller I like a hit at our way of life, though it does seems that the truth should be clearly comwell for me, better than anything short of all prehended, that when he has told us a one's time to one's self; for which alone I matter-of-fact, or a motive, in a line or two rankle with envy at the rich. Books are farther down he repeats it, with his favourite good, and pictures are good, and money to figure of speech, 'I say,' so and so, though he buy them therefore good, but to buy time! had made it abundantly plain before. This in other words, life! is in imitation of the common people's way of speaking, or rather of the way in which they are addressed by a master or mistress, wh wishes to impress something upon their memories, and has a wonderful effect upon matter-of-fact readers. Indeed, it is to such principally that he writes. His style is everywhere beautiful, but plain and homely Robinson Crusoe is delightful to all ranks and classes, but it is easy to see that it is written in phraseology peculiarly adapted to "The 'compliments of the time' to you, should end my letter; to a Friend, I suppose, I must say the 'sincerity of the season;' I hope they both mean the same. With excuses for this hastily-penned note, believe me, with great respect, C. LAMB." In this winter Mr. Walter Wilson, one of the friends of Lamb's youth, applied to him for information respecting De Foe, whose weary way of duty than the poet whose brief dream of literary engrossment incited Lamb to make a generous amends to his ledger for all his unjust reproaches. The references to the booksellers have the colouring of fantastical exaggeration, by which he delighted to making allowance for this mere play of fancy, how just is the following advice---how wholesome for every youth who hesitates whether he shall abandon the certain reward of plodding industry for the splendid miseries of authorship! * It is singular that, some years before, Mr. Barton the lower conditions of readers; hence it is an especial favourite with seafaring men, poor boys, servant-maids, &c. His novels are capital kitchen-reading, while they are worthy, from their deep interest, to find a shelf in the libraries of the wealthiest, and the most learned. His passion for matter-of-give effect to the immediate feeling; but fuct narrative sometimes betrayed him into a long relation of common incidents, which might happen to any man, and have no interest but the intense appearance of truth in them, to recommend them. The whole latter half or two-thirds of 'Colonel Jack' is of this description. The beginning of 'Colonel Jack' is the most affecting natural picture of a young thief that was ever drawn. His losing the stolen money in the hollow of a tree, and finding it again when he was in despair, and then being in equal distress at not knowing how to dispose of it, and several similar touches in the early history of the Colonel, evince a deep knowledge of human nature; and putting out of question the superior romantic interest of the latter, in my mind very much exceed Crusoe. 'Roxana' (first edition) is the next in interest, though he left out the best part of it in subsequent editions from a foolish hypercriticism of his friend Southerne. But 'Moll How bitterly Lamb felt his East-India bondage, has abundantly appeared from his letters during many years. Yet there never was wanting a secret consciousness of the benefits which it ensured for him, the precious independence which he won by his hours of toil, and the freedom of his mind, to work only "at its own sweet will," which his confinement to the desk obtained. This sense of the blessings which a fixed income, derived from ascertained duties, confers, was nobly expressed in reference to a casual fancy in one of the letters of his fellow in clerkly as well as in poetical labours, Bernard Barton-a fancy as alien to the habitual thoughts of his friend, as to his own--for no one has pursued a steadier course on the had received similar advice from a very different poetand it may be interesting to compare the expressions of two men so different on the same subject, I subjoin it Lord Byron. As the letter has never been published, here: "TO BERNARD BARTON, ESQ. "St. James' Street, June 1, 1812. "Sir,-The most satisfactory answer to the concluding part of your letter is, that Mr. Murray will republish your volume, if you still retain your inclination for the weeks ago my friend Mr. Rogers showed me some of the stanzas in MS., and I then expressed my opinion of their has given me no reason to revoke. I mention this, as merit, which a further perusal of the printed volume it may not be disagreeable to you to learn, that I entertained a very favourable opinion of your powers before I was aware that such sentiments were reciprocal. waving your obliging expressions as to my own productions, for which I thank you very sincerely, and assure experiment, which I trust will be successful. Some you that I think not lightly of the praise of one whose approbation is valuable; will you allow me to talk to you candidly, not critically, on the subject of yours? You will not suspect me of a wish to discourage, since I pointed out to the publisher the propriety of complying with your wishes. I think more highly of your poetical talents than it would perhaps gratify you to hear expressed, for I believe, from what I observe of your mind, that you are above flattery. To come to the point, you deserve success; but we knew before Addison wrote his Cato, that desert does not always command it. But suppose it attained, 'You know what ills the author's life assail, Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.' Do not renounce writing, but never trust entirely to authorship. If you have a profession, retain it; it will Compare Mr. Rogers with other authors of the day; be like Prior's fellowship, a last and sure resource. assuredly he is among the first of living poets, but is it to that he owes his station in society, and his intimacy in the best circles ?-no, it is to his prudence and respectability. The world (a bad one, I own) courts him because he has no occasion to court it. He is a poet, nor is he less so because he is something more. I am not sorry to hear that you were not tempted by the vicinity of Capel Lofft, Esq.,-though, if he had done for you what he has for the Bloomfields, I should never have constituted mind will ever be independent. That you laughed at his rage for patronising. But a truly wellmay be so is my sincere wish; and if others think as well of your poetry as I do, you will have no cause to complain of your readers. Believe me, "Your obliged and obedient servant, "BYRON." |