Crusoe had reared it to soothe himself with old church-going images. I forget its Christian name, and what she-saint was its gossip. You should also go to No. 13, Standgate Street,-a baker, who has the finest collection of marine monsters in ten sea counties,-sea dragons, polypi, merpeople, most fantastic. You have only to name the old gentleman in black (not the Devil) that lodged with him a week (he'll remember) last July, and he will show courtesy. He is by far the foremost of the savans. His wife is the funniest thwarting little animal! They are decidedly the Lions of green Hastings. Well, I have made an end of my say. My epistolary time is gone by when I could have scribbled as long (I will not say as agreeable) as thine was to both of us. I am dwindled to notes and letterets. But, in good earnest, I shall be most happy to hail thy return to the waters of Old Sir Hugh. There is nothing like inland murmurs, fresh ripples, and our native minnows. "He sang in meeds how sweet the brooklets ran, I design to give up smoking; but I have not yet C. L. 1 LETTER CCCXXII.] [No date.] TO THE SAME. Dear Lamb,-You are an impudent varlet; but I will keep your secret. We dine at Ayrton's on Thursday, and shall try to find Sarah and her two spare beds for that night only. Miss M. and her tragedy may be dished: so may not you and your rib. Health attend you. Enfield. Yours, Miss Bridget Hood sends love. T. HOOD, ESQ.1 LETTER CCCXXIII.] [No date.] TO JOSEPH COTTLE. Dear Sir,-It is so long since I have seen or heard from you, that I fear that you will consider a request I have to make as impertinent. About three years since, when I was in Bristol, I made an effort to see you by calling at Brunswick Square; but you were from home. The request I have to make is, that you would very much oblige me, if you have any small portrait of yourself, by allowing me to have it copied, to accompany a selection of the likenesses of "Living Bards" which a most particular friend of mine is making. If you have no objection, and would oblige ' One of Lamb's pleasant mystifications, the point of which lay in the anticipated bewilderment of the receiver of the letter, on being greeted by his own signature.-F. me by transmitting such portrait, I will answer for taking the greatest care of it, and for its safe return. I hope you will pardon the liberty. From an old friend and well-wisher, CHARLES LAMB. LETTER CCCXXIV.] TO THE SAME. [No date.] Dear Sir,-My friend, whom you have obliged by the loan of your picture, has had it very nicely copied (and a very spirited drawing it is; so every one thinks who has seen it.) The copy is not much inferior to yours, done by a daughter of Joseph's, R.A. I accompany the picture with my warm thanks, both for that, and your better favour, the "Messiah," which I assure you I have read through with great pleasure. The verses have great sweetness, and a New Testament plainness about them which affected me very much. I could just wish that in page 63 you had omitted the lines 71 and 72, and had ended the period with "The willowy brook was there, but that sweet sound— Two very sweet lines, and the sense perfect. "He spake, 'I come, ordain'd a world to save, These words are hardly borne out by the story, and seem scarce accordant with the modesty with which our Lord came to take his common portion among the baptismal candidates. They also anticipate the beauty of John's recognition of the Messiah, and the subsequent confirmation by the Voice and Dove. You will excuse the remarks of an old brother bard, whose career, though long since pretty well stopped, was co-eval in its beginning with your own, and who is sorry his lot has been always to be so distant from you. It is not like that C. L. will see Bristol again; but, if J. C. should ever visit London, he will be a most welcome visitor to C. L. My sister joins in cordial remembrances. Dear sir, yours truly, LETTER CCCXXV.] CHARLES LAMB. TO THE SAME. London, India House, May 26, 1829. My dear Sir, I am quite ashamed of not having acknowledged your kind present earlier; but that unknown something, which was never yet discovered, though so often speculated upon, which stands in the way of lazy folks answering letters, has presented its usual obstacle. It is not forgetfulness nor disrespect nor incivility, but terribly like all these bad things. I have been in my time a great epistolary scribbler: but the passion, and with it the facility, at length wears out; and it must be pumped up again by the heavy machinery of duty or gratitude, when it should run free. I have read your " Fall of Cambria " with as much pleasure as I did your "Messiah." Your Cambrian poem I shall be tempted to repeat oftenest, as human poems take me in a mood more frequently congenial than divine. The character of Llewellyn pleases me more than any thing else, perhaps; and then some of the lyrical pieces are fine varieties. It was quite a mistake that I could dislike any thing you should write against Lord Byron; for I have a thorough aversion to his character, and a very moderate admiration of his genius: he is great in so little a way. To be a poet is to be the man, not a petty portion of occasional low passion worked up in a permanent form of humanity. Shakspeare has thrust such rubbishly feelings into a corner,-the dark dusky heart of Don John, in the Much Ado about Nothing. The fact is, I have not seen your " Expostulatory Epistle" to him. I was not aware, till your question, that it was out. I shall inquire, and get it forthwith. Southey is in town, whom I have seen slightly; Wordsworth expected, whom I hope to see much of. I write with accelerated motion; for I have two or three bothering clerks and brokers about me, who always press in proportion as you seem to be doing something that is not business. I could exclaim a little profanely; but I think you do not like swearing. I conclude, begging you to consider that I feel myself much obliged by your kindness; and shall be most happy at any and at all times to hear from you. Dear sir, yours truly, CHARLES Lamb. LETTER CCCXXVI. TO J. TAYLOR. July 30, 182 Dear Sir,-You will do me injustice if you do not convey to the writer of the beautiful lines, which I now return you, my sense of the extreme kindness which dictated them. Poor Elia (call him Ellia) does not pretend to so very clear revelations of a future state of being as Olen seems gifted with. He |