LETTER 205

CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH [Dated at end: August 9, 1814.]

Dear Wordsworth, I cannot tell you how pleased I was at the receit of the great Armful of Poetry which you have sent me, and to get it before the rest of the world too! I have gone quite through with it, and was thinking to have accomplishd that pleasure a second time before I wrote to thank you, but M. Burney came in the night (while we were out) and made holy theft of it, but we expect rest.i.tution in a day or two. It is the n.o.blest conversational poem I ever read. A day in heaven. The part (or rather main body) which has left the sweetest odour on my memory (a bad term for the remains of an impression so recent) is the Tales of the Church yard. The only girl among seven brethren, born out of due time and not duly taken away again--the deaf man and the blind man--the Jacobite and the Hanoverian whom antipathies reconcile--the Scarron-entry of the rusticating parson upon his solitude--these were all new to me too. My having known the story of Margaret (at the beginning), a very old acquaintance, even as long back as I saw you first at Stowey, did not make her reappearance less fresh. I don't know what to pick out of this Best of Books upon the best subjects for partial naming.

That gorgeous Sunset is famous, I think it must have been the identical one we saw on Salisbury plain five years ago, that drew Phillips from the card table where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its unequall'd set, but neither he nor I had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified such as the prophets saw them, in that sunset--the wheel--the potter's clay--the wash pot--the wine press--the almond tree rod--the baskets of figs--the fourfold visaged head, the throne and him that sat thereon.

One feeling I was particularly struck with as what I recognised so very lately at Harrow Church on entering in it after a hot and secular day's pleasure,--the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming, properties of a country church just entered--a certain fragrance which it has--either from its holiness, or being kept shut all the week, or the air that is let in being pure country--exactly what you have reduced into words but I am feeling I cannot. The reading your lines about it fixed me for a time, a monument, in Harrow Church, (do you know it?) with its fine long Spire white as washd marble, to be seen by vantage of its high scite as far as Salisbury spire itself almost--

I shall select a day or two very shortly when I am coolest in brain to have a steady second reading, which I feel will lead to many more, for it will be a stock book with me while eyes or spectacles shall be lent me.

There is a deal of n.o.ble matter about mountain scenery, yet not so much as to overpower and discountenance a poor Londoner or South country man entirely, though Mary seems to have felt it occasionally a little too powerfully, for it was her remark during reading it that by your system it was doubtful whether a Liver in Towns had a Soul to be Saved. She almost trembled for that invisible part of us in her.

Save for a late excursion to Harrow and a day or two on the banks of the Thames this Summer, rural images were fast fading from my mind, and by the wise provision of the Regent all that was countryfy'd in the Parks is all but obliterated. The very colour of green is vanishd, the whole surface of Hyde Park is dry crumbling sand (Arabia Arenosa), not a vestige or hint of gra.s.s ever having grown there, booths and drinking places go all round it for a mile and half I am confident--I might say two miles in circuit--the stench of liquors, _bad_ tobacco, dirty people and provisions, conquers the air and we are stifled and suffocated in Hyde Park.

Order after Order has been issued by L'd. Sidmouth in the name of the Regent (acting in behalf of his Royal father) for the dispersion of the varlets, but in vain. The vis unita of all the Publicans in London, Westm'r., Marybone, and miles round is too powerful a force to put down.

The Regent has rais'd a phantom which he cannot lay. There they'll stay probably for ever. The whole beauty of the Place is gone--that lake--look of the Serpentine--it has got foolish ships upon it--but something whispers to have confidence in nature and its revival--

at the coming of the _milder day_ These monuments shall all be overgrown.

Meantime I confess to have smoked one delicious Pipe in one of the cleanliest and goodliest of the booths--a tent rather, "O call it not a booth!"--erected by the public Spirit of Watson, who keeps the Adam and Eve at Pancras (the ale houses have all emigrated with their train of bottles, mugs, corkscrews, waiters, into Hyde Park--whole Ale houses with all their Ale!) in company with some of the guards that had been in France and a fine French girl (habited like a Princess of Banditti) which one of the dogs had transported from the Garonne to the Serpentine. The unusual scene, in H. Park, by Candlelight in open air, good tobacco, bottled stout, made it look like an interval in a campaign, a repose after battle, I almost fancied scars smarting and was ready to club a story with my comrades of some of my lying deeds.

After all, the fireworks were splendent--the Rockets in cl.u.s.ters, in trees and all shapes, spreading about like young stars in the making, floundering about in s.p.a.ce (like unbroke horses) till some of Newton's calculations should fix them, but then they went out. Any one who could see 'em and the still finer showers of gloomy rain fire that fell sulkily and angrily from 'em, and could go to bed without dreaming of the Last Day, must be as hardened an Atheist as * * * * * *.

Again let me thank you for your present and a.s.sure you that fireworks and triumphs have not distracted me from receiving a calm and n.o.ble enjoyment from it (which I trust I shall often), and I sincerely congratulate you on its appearance.

With kindest remembrances to you & household, we remain--yours sincerely

C. LAMB and sister.

9 Aug., 1814.

[With this letter Lamb's second epistolary period may be said to begin.

Wordsworth had sent Lamb a copy of _The Excursion_, which had been published in July, 1814. In connection with this letter Lamb's review of the poem in the _Quarterly_ (see Vol. I. of this edition) should be read. The tales of the churchyard are in Books VI. and VII. The story of Margaret had been written in 1795.

The "sunset scene" (see letter of September 19, 1814) is at the end of Book II. Lamb refers to his visit to Hazlitt at Winterslow, near Salisbury, in 1809, with Mary Lamb, Colonel Phillips and Martin Burney.

Wordsworth was not with them. This is the pa.s.sage:--

So was he lifted gently from the ground, And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved Through the dull mist, I following--when a step, A single step, that freed me from the skirts Of the blind vapour, opened to my view Glory beyond all glory ever seen By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!

The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, Was of a mighty city--boldly say A wilderness of building, sinking far And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, Far sinking into splendour--without end!

Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, With alabaster domes, and silver spires, And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars--illumination of all gems!

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified; on them, and on the coves And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto The vapours had receded, taking there Their station under a cerulean sky.

Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight!

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf, Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, Molten together, and composing thus, Each lost in each, that marvellous array Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name, In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.

Right in the midst, where inters.p.a.ce appeared Of open court, an object like a throne Under a shining canopy of state Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use, But vast in size, in substance glorified; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision--forms uncouth of mightiest power For admiration and mysterious awe.

In August, 1814, London was in a state of jubilation over the declaration of peace between England and France. Lord Sidmouth, late Mr.

Addington, the Home Secretary, known as "The Doctor," was one of Lamb's b.u.t.ts in his political epigrams.

"* * * * * *." I a.s.sume these stars to stand for G.o.dwin.]

LETTER 206

CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE

13 August, 1814.

Dear Resuscitate,--there comes to you by the vehicle from Lad Lane this day a volume of German; what it is I cannot justly say, the characters of those northern nations having been always singularly harsh and unpleasant to me. It is a contribution of Dr. Southey towards your wants, and you would have had it sooner but for an odd accident. I wrote for it three days ago, and the Dr., as he thought, sent it me. A book of like exterior he did send, but being disclosed, how far unlike. It was the _Well-bred Scholar_,--a book with which it seems the Dr. laudably fills up those hours which he can steal from his medical avocations.

Chesterfield, Blair, Beattie, portions from "The Life of Savage," make up a prettyish system of morality and the Belles Lettres, which Mr.

Mylne, a Schoolmaster, has properly brought together, and calls the collection by the denomination above mentioned. The Doctor had no sooner discovered his error than he despatched man and horse to rectify the mistake, and with a pretty kind of ingenuous modesty in his note seemeth to deny any knowledge of the _Well-bred Scholar_; false modesty surely and a blush misplaced; for, what more pleasing than the consideration of professional austerity thus relaxing, thus improving; but so, when a child I remember blushing, being caught on my knees to my maker, or doing otherwise some pious and praiseworthy action; _now_ I rather love such things to be seen. Henry Crabb Robinson is out upon his circuit, and his books are inaccessible without his leave and key. He is attending the Midland Circuit,--a short term, but to him, as to many young Lawyers, a long vacation sufficiently dreary. I thought I could do no better than transmit to him, not extracts, but your very letter itself, than which I think I never read any thing more moving, more pathetic, or more conducive to the purpose of persuasion. The Crab is a sour Crab if it does not sweeten him. I think it would draw another third volume of Dodsley out of me; but you say you don't want any English books? Perhaps, after all, that's as well; one's romantic credulity is for ever misleading one into misplaced acts of foolery.

Crab might have answered by this time: his juices take a long time supplying, but they'll run at last,--I know they will,--pure golden pippin. His address is at T. Robinson's, Bury, and if on Circuit, to be forwarded immediately--such my peremptory superscription. A fearful rumour has since reached me that the Crab is on the eve of setting out for France. If he is in England, your letter will reach him, and I flatter myself a touch of the persuasive of my own, which accompanies it, will not be thrown away; if it be, he is a Sloe, and no true-hearted crab, and there's an end. For that life of the German Conjuror which you speak of, "Colerus de Vita Doctoris vix-Intelligibilis," I perfectly remember the last evening we spent with Mrs. Morgan and Miss Brent, in London-Street,--(by that token we had raw rabbits for supper, and Miss Brent prevailed upon me to take a gla.s.s of brandy and water after supper, which is not my habit,)--I perfectly remember reading portions of that life in their parlour, and I think it must be among their Packages. It was the very last evening we were at that house. What is gone of that frank-hearted circle, Morgan and his cos-lettuces? He ate walnuts better than any man I ever knew. Friendships in these parts stagnate. One piece of news I know will give you pleasure--Rickman is made a Clerk to the House of Commons, 2000 a year with greater expectat'us--but that is not the news--but it is that poor card-playing Phillips, that has felt himself for so many years the outcast of Fortune, which feeling pervaded his very intellect, till it made the destiny it feared, withering his hopes in the great and little games of life--by favor of the single star that ever shone upon him since his birth, has strangely stept into Rickman's Secretaryship--sword, bag, House and all--from a hopeless 100 a year eaten up beforehand with desperate debts, to a clear 400 or 500--it almost reconciles me to the belief of a moral government of the world--the man stares and gapes and seems to be always wondering at what has befaln him--he tries to be eager at Cribbage, but alas! the source of that Interest is dried up for ever, he no longer plays for his next day's meal, or to determine whether he shall have a half dinner or a whole dinner, whether he shall buy a pair of black silk stockings, or wax his old ones a week or two longer, the poor man's relish of a Trump, the Four Honors, is gone--and I do not know whether if we could get at the bottom of things whether poor star-doomed Phillips with his hair staring with despair was not a happier being than the sleek well combed oily-pated Secretary that has succeeded. The gift is, however, clogged with one stipulation, that the Secretary is to remain a Single Man. Here I smell Rickman. Thus are gone at once all Phillips' matrimonial dreams. Those verses which he wrote himself, and those which a superior pen (with modesty let me speak as I name no names) endited for him to Elisa, Amelia &c.--for Phillips was a wife-hunting, probably from the circ.u.mstance of his having formed an extreme rash connection in early life which paved the way to all his after misfortunes, but there is an obstinacy in human nature which such accidents only serve to whet on to try again. Pleasure thus at two entrances quite shut out--I hardly know how to determine of Phillips's result of happiness. He appears satisfyd, but never those bursts of gaiety, those moment-rules from the Cave of Despondency, that used to make his face shine and shew the lines which care had marked in it. I would bet an even wager he marries secretly, the Speaker finds it out, and he is reverted to his old Liberty and a hundred pounds a year--these are but speculations--I can think of no other news. I am going to eat Turbot, Turtle, Venison, marrow pudding--cold punch, claret, madeira,-- at our annual feast at half-past four this day. Mary has ordered the bolt to my bedroom door inside to be taken off, and a practicable latch to be put on, that I may not bar myself in and be suffocated by my neckcloth, so we have taken all precautions, three watchmen are engaged to carry the body up-stairs--Pray for me. They keep bothering me, (I'm at office,) and my ideas are confused. Let me know if I can be of any service as to books. G.o.d forbid the Architectonicon should be sacrificed to a foolish scruple of some Book-proprietor, as if books did not belong with the highest propriety to those that understand 'em best.

C. LAMB.

[Since Lamb's last letter to him (October 30, 1809) Coleridge had done very little. _The Friend_ had been given up; he had made his London home with the Morgans; had delivered the pictures on Shakespeare and contributed to _The Courier_; "Remorse" had been produced with Lamb's prologue, January 23, 1813; the quarrel with Wordsworth had been to some extent healed; he had sold his German books; and the opium-habit was growing on him. He was now at Bristol, living with Joseph Wade, and meditating a great work on Christianity which Cottle was to print, and which ultimately became the _Biographia Literaria_.

The term "Resuscitate" may refer to one of Coleridge's frequent threats of dying.

Dr. Henry Herbert Southey (1783-1865) was brother of the poet. He had just settled in London.

"Mylne" was William Milns, author of the _Well-Bred Scholar_, 1794.

Crabb Robinson does not mention Coleridge's letter, nor make any reference to it, in his _Diary_. He went to France in August after circuit. It was at this time (August 23) that Coleridge wrote to John Murray concerning a translation of Goethe's _Faust_, which Murray contemplated (see _Letters_, E. H. Coleridge, page 624). The suggestion that Coleridge should translate _Faust_ for Murray came _via_ Crabb Robinson _via_ Lamb.

The "life of the German conjuror." There were several Colerus'. John Colerus of Amsterdam wrote a Life of Spinoza. Lamb may have meant this, John Colerus of Berlin invented a perpetual calendar and John Jacob Colerus examined Platonic doctrine. There are still others.

The Morgans had moved to Ashley, near Box. Miss Brent was Mrs. Morgan's sister.

"Our annual feast"--the annual dinner of the India House clerks.

"The Architectonicon." Lamb refers possibly to some great projected work of Coleridge's. The term is applied to metaphysicians. Possibly Goethe is referred to.]

LETTER 207

CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE