LETTER 14

CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE

Nov. 14th, 1796.

Coleridge, I love you for dedicating your poetry to Bowles. Genius of the sacred fountain of tears, it was he who led you gently by the hand through all this valley of weeping, showed you the dark green yew trees and the willow shades where, by the fall of waters, you might indulge an uncomplaining melancholy, a delicious regret for the past, or weave fine visions of that awful future,

"When all the vanities of life's brief day Oblivion's hurrying hand hath swept away, And all its sorrows, at the awful blast Of the archangel's trump, are but as shadows past."

I have another sort of dedication in my head for my few things, which I want to know if you approve of, and can insert. I mean to inscribe them to my sister. It will be unexpected, and it will give her pleasure; or do you think it will look whimsical at all? As I have not spoke to her about it, I can easily reject the idea. But there is a monotony in the affections, which people living together or, as we do now, very frequently seeing each other, are apt to give in to: a sort of indifference in the expression of kindness for each other, which demands that we should sometimes call to our aid the trickery of surprise. Do you publish with Lloyd or without him? in either case my little portion may come last, and after the fashion of orders to a country correspondent I will give directions how I should like to have 'em done.

The t.i.tle-page to stand thus:--

POEMS,

CHIEFLY LOVE SONNETS BY

CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE.

Under this t.i.tle the following motto, which, for want of room, I put over leaf, and desire you to insert, whether you like it or no. May not a gentleman choose what arms, mottoes, or armorial bearings the herald will give him leave, without consulting his republican friend, who might advise none? May not a publican put up the sign of the Saracen's Head, even though his undiscerning neighbour should prefer, as more genteel, the Cat and Gridiron?

(MOTTO.)

"This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, When my first fire knew no adulterate incense, Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, In the best language my true tongue could tell me, And all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, I sued and served. Long did I love this lady."

Ma.s.sINGER.

THE DEDICATION.

THE FEW FOLLOWING POEMS, CREATURES OF THE FANCY AND THE FEELING IN LIFE'S MORE VACANT HOURS, PRODUCED, FOR THE MOST PART, BY LOVE IN IDLENESS, ARE, WITH ALL A BROTHER'S FONDNESS, INSCRIBED TO MARY ANN LAMB, THE AUTHOR'S BEST FRIEND AND SISTER.

This is the pomp and paraphernalia of parting, with which I take my leave of a pa.s.sion which has reigned so royally (so long) within me; thus, with its trappings of laureatship, I fling it off, pleased and satisfied with myself that the weakness troubles me no longer. I am wedded, Coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father.

Oh! my friend, I think sometimes, could I recall the days that are past, which among them should I choose? not those "merrier days," not the "pleasant days of hope," not "those wanderings with a fair hair'd maid,"

which I have so often and so feelingly regretted, but the days, Coleridge, of a _mother's_ fondness for her _school-boy_. What would I give to call her back to earth for _one_ day, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper which, from time to time, have given her gentle spirit pain; and the day, my friend, I trust will come; there will be "time enough" for kind offices of love, if "Heaven's eternal year" be ours. Hereafter, her meek spirit shall not reproach me. Oh, my friend, cultivate the filial feelings! and let no man think himself released from the kind "charities" of relationship: these shall give him peace at the last; these are the best foundation for every species of benevolence. I rejoice to hear, by certain channels, that you, my friend, are reconciled with all your relations.

'Tis the most kindly and natural species of love, and we have all the a.s.sociated train of early feelings to secure its strength and perpetuity. Send me an account of your health; _indeed_ I am solicitous about you. G.o.d love you and yours. C. LAMB.

[It seems to have been Coleridge's intention to dedicate the second edition of his _Poems_ to Bowles; but he changed his mind and dedicated it to his brother, the Rev. George Coleridge. A sonnet to Bowles was included in the volume, a kind of sub-dedication of the other sonnets, but it had appeared also in the 1796 volume.

Lamb's instructions concerning his share in the 1797 volume were carried out, except that the sub-t.i.tle was omitted.

The quotations "merrier days" ("happier days") and "wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid" are from Lamb's own sonnets; those in lines 9 and 10 from Dryden's Elegy on Mrs. Killigrew.

Coleridge had paid in the summer a long-deferred visit of reconciliation to his family at Ottery St. Mary.]

LETTER 15

CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE

[P.M. December 2, 1796 (Friday).]

I have delay'd writing thus long, not having by me my copy of your poems, which I had lent. I am not satisfied with all your intended omissions. Why omit 40: 63: 84: above all, let me protest strongly against your rejecting the "Complaint of Ninathoma," 86. The words, I acknowledge, are Ossian's, but you have added to them the "Music of Caril." If a vicarious subst.i.tute be wanting, sacrifice (and 'twill be a piece of self-denial _too_) the Epitaph on an Infant, of which its Author seems so proud, so tenacious. Or, if your heart be set on _perpetuating_ the four-line-wonder, I'll tell you what [to] do: sell the copywright of it at once to a country statuary; commence in this manner Death's prime poet laureat; and let your verses be adopted in every village round instead of those hitherto famous ones "Afflictions sore long time I bore, Physicians were in vain". I have seen your last very beautiful poem in the Monthly Magazine--write thus, and you most generally have written thus, and I shall never quarrel with you about simplicity. With regard to my lines "Laugh all that weep," etc.--I would willingly sacrifice them, but my portion of the volume is so ridiculously little, that in honest truth I can't spare them. As things are, I have very slight pretensions to partic.i.p.ate in the t.i.tle-page.--White's book is at length reviewed in the Monthly; was it your doing, or Dyer's to whom I sent him? Or rather do you not write in the Critical? for I observed, in an Article of this Month's a line quoted out of _that_ sonnet on Mrs. Siddons "with eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight"--and a line from _that_ sonnet would not readily have occurred to a stranger. That sonnet, Coleridge, brings afresh to my mind the time when you wrote those on Bowles, Priestly, Burke--'twas 2 Christmases ago, and in that nice little smoky room at the Salutation, which is even now continually presenting itself to my recollection, with all its a.s.sociated train of pipes, tobacco, Egghot, welch Rabbits, metaphysics and Poetry.

Are we NEVER to meet again? How differently I am circ.u.mstanced now--I have never met with any one, never shall meet with any one, who could or can compensate me for the loss of your society--I have no one to talk all these matters about to--I lack friends, I lack books to supply their absence. But these complaints ill become me: let me compare my present situation, prospects, and state of mind, with what they were but 2 months back--_but_ 2 months. O my friend, I am in danger of forgetting the awful lessons then presented to me--remind me of them; remind me of my Duty. Talk seriously with me when you do write. I thank you, from my heart I thank you, for your sollicitude about my Sister. She is quite well,--but must not, I fear, come to live with us yet a good while. In the first place, because at present it would hurt her, and hurt my father, for them to be together: secondly from a regard to the world's good report, for I fear, I fear, tongues will be busy _whenever_ that event takes place. Some have hinted, one man has prest it on me, that she should be in perpetual confinement--what she hath done to deserve, or the necessity of such an hardship, I see not; do you? I am starving at the India house, near 7 o'clock without my dinner, and so it has been and will be almost all the week. I get home at night o'erwearied, quite faint,--and then to CARDS with my father, who will not let me enjoy a meal in peace--but I must conform to my situation, and I hope I am, for the most part, not unthankful.

I am got home at last, and, after repeated games at Cribbage have got my father's leave to write awhile: with difficulty got it, for when I expostulated about playing any more, he very aptly replied, "If you won't play with me, you might as well not come home at all." The argument was unanswerable, and I set to afresh.

I told you, I do not approve of your omissions. Neither do I quite coincide with you in your arrangements: I have not time to point out a better, and I suppose some self-a.s.sociations of your own have determined their place as they now stand. Your beginning indeed with the Joan of Arc lines I coincide entirely with: I love a splendid Outset, a magnificent Portico; and the Diapason is Grand--the Religious Musings-- when I read them, I think how poor, how unelevated, unoriginal, my blank verse is, "Laugh all that weep" especially, where the subject demanded a grandeur of conception: and I ask what business they have among yours--but Friendship covereth a mult.i.tude of defects. Why omit 73? At all events, let me plead for those former pages,--40. 63. 84. 86. I should like, for old acquaintance sake, to spare 62. 119 would have made a figure among _Shenstone_'s Elegies: _you_ may admit it or reject, as you please. In the Man of Ross let the old line stand as it used: "wine-cheer'd moments" much better than the lame present one. 94, change the harsh word "foodful" into "dulcet" or, if not too harsh, "nourishing." 91, "moveless": is that as good as "moping"?--8, would it not read better omitting those 2 lines last but 6 about Inspiration? I want some loppings made in the Chatterton; it wants but a little to make it rank among the finest irregular Lyrics I ever read. Have you time and inclination to go to work upon it--or is it too late--or do you think it needs none? Don't reject those verses in one of your Watchmen--"Dear native brook," &c.--nor, I think, those last lines you sent me, in which "all effortless" is without doubt to be preferred to "inactive." If I am writing more than ordinarily dully, 'tis that I am stupified with a tooth-ache. 37, would not the concluding lines of the 1st paragraph be well omitted--& it go on "So to sad sympathies" &c.? In 40, if you retain it, "wove" the learned Toil is better than "urge," which spoils the personification. Hang it, do not omit 48. 52. 53. What you do retain tho', call sonnets for G.o.d's sake, and not effusions,--spite of your ingenious antic.i.p.ation of ridicule in your Preface. The last 5 lines of 50 are too good to be lost, the rest is not much worth. My tooth becomes importunate--I must finish. Pray, pray, write to me: if you knew with what an anxiety of joy I open such a long packet as you last sent me, you would not grudge giving a few minutes now and then to this intercourse (the only intercourse, I fear we two shall ever have), this conversation, with your friend--such I boast to be called.

G.o.d love you and yours.

Write to me when you move, lest I direct wrong.

Has Sara no poems to publish? Those lines 129 are probably too light for the volume where the Religious Musings are--but I remember some very beautiful lines addrest by somebody at Bristol to somebody at London.

G.o.d bless you once more.

C. LAMB.

Thursday Night.

[This letter refers to the preparation of Coleridge's second edition of his _Poems_. "Why omit 40, 63, 84?"--these were "Absence," "To the Autumnal Moon" and the imitation from Ossian.

The "Epitaph on an Infant" ran thus:--

Ere Sin could blight, or Sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed And bade it blossom there.

Lamb applied the first two lines to a sucking pig in his _Elia_ essay on "Roast Pig" many years later. The old epitaph runs:--

Afflictions sore long time I bore, Physicians were in vain; Till Heaven did please my woes to ease, And take away my pain.

Coleridge's very beautiful poem in the _Monthly Magazine_ (for October) was "Reflections on Entering into Active Life," beginning, "Low was our pretty cot."

Lamb's lines, "Laugh all that weep," I cannot find. We learn later that they were in blank verse.

_Falstaff's Letters_ was reviewed in the _Monthly Review_ for November, 1796, very favourably. The article was quite possibly by Coleridge.

The sonnet on Mrs. Siddons was written by Lamb and Coleridge together when Coleridge was in London at the end of 1794, and it formed one of a series of sonnets on eminent persons printed in the _Morning Chronicle_, of which those on Bowles, Priestley and Burke were others. The quotation from it was in an article in the November _Critical Review_ on the "Musae Etonenses."

"One man has prest it on me." There is reason to suppose that this was John Lamb, the brother.