"You shall soon see." Lamb's first reference to the _Elia_ essays, alluding here to "The South-Sea House."

Here should come a letter from Lamb to Hazlitt. Lamb says that his sister is ill again and that the last thing she read was Hazlitt's "Thursday Nights" which gave her unmixed delight--the reference being to the second part of the essay "On the Conversation of Authors," which was printed in the _London Magazine_ for September, 1820, describing Lamb's evenings. Stoddart, Hazlitt's brother-in-law, Lamb adds, says it is better than Hogarth's "Modern Midnight Conversation."

Here should come a business note to John Scott, editor of the _London Magazine_, dated August 24, 1820, given in the Boston Bibliophile edition.]

LETTER 263A

CHARLES LAMB TO S. T. COLERIDGE

[No date. ? Autumn, 1820.]

Dear C.,--Why will you make your visits, which should give pleasure, matter of regret to your friends? You never come but you take away some folio that is part of my existence. With a great deal of difficulty I was made to comprehend the extent of my loss. My maid Becky brought me a dirty bit of paper, which contained her description of some book which Mr. Coleridge had taken away. It was "l.u.s.ter's Tables," which, for some time, I could not make out. "What! has he carried away any of the _tables_, Becky?" "No, it wasn't any tables, but it was a book that he called l.u.s.ter's Tables." I was obliged to search personally among my shelves, and a huge fissure suddenly disclosed to me the true nature of the damage I had sustained. That book, C., you should not have taken away, for it is not mine; it is the property of a friend, who does not know its value, nor indeed have I been very sedulous in explaining to him the estimate of it; but was rather contented in giving a sort of corroboration to a hint that he let fall, as to its being suspected to be not genuine, so that in all probability it would have fallen to me as a deodand; not but I am as sure it is Luther's as I am sure that Jack Bunyan wrote the "Pilgrim's Progress;" but it was not for me to p.r.o.nounce upon the validity of testimony that had been disputed by learneder clerks than I. So I quietly let it occupy the place it had usurped upon my shelves, and should never have thought of issuing an ejectment against it; for why should I be so bigoted as to allow rites of hospitality to none but my own books, children, &c.?--a species of egotism I abhor from my heart. No; let 'em all snug together, Hebrews and Proselytes of the gate; no selfish partiality of mine shall make distinction between them; I charge no warehouse-room for my friends'

commodities; they are welcome to come and stay as long as they like, without paying rent. I have several such strangers that I treat with more than Arabian courtesy; there's a copy of More's fine poem, which is none of mine; but I cherish it as my own; I am none of those churlish landlords that advertise the goods to be taken away in ten days' time, or then to be sold to pay expenses. So you see I had no right to lend you that book; I may lend you my own books, because it is at my own hazard, but it is not honest to hazard a friend's property; I always make that distinction. I hope you will bring it with you, or send it by Hartley; or he can bring that, and you the "Polemical Discourses," and come and eat some atoning mutton with us one of these days shortly. We are engaged two or three Sundays deep, but always dine at home on week-days at half-past four. So come all four--men and books I mean--my third shelf (northern compartment) from the top has two devilish gaps, where you have knocked out its two eye-teeth.

Your wronged friend, C. LAMB.

[This letter is usually dated 1824, but I think it was written earlier.

For one reason, Hartley Coleridge was not in London in that year, and for another, there are several phrases in the _Elia_ essay "Two Races of Men" (printed in the _London Magazine_, December, 1820) that are so similar to some in this letter that I imagine the letter to have suggested the subject of the essay, the composition of which immediately followed it. Thus, in the essay we read:--

"That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a great eye-tooth knocked out--(you are now with me in my little back study in Bloomsbury, reader!)--with the huge Switzer-like tomes on each side (like the Guildhall giants, in their reformed posture, guardant of nothing) once held the tallest of my folios, _Opera Bonaventurae_, choice and ma.s.sy divinity, to which its two supporters (school divinity also, but of a lesser calibre,--Bellarmine, and Holy Thomas), showed but as dwarfs,-- itself an Ascapart!--_that_ Comberbatch abstracted upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, I confess, for me to surfer by than to refute, namely, that 'the t.i.tle to property in a book (my Bonaventure, for instance) is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of understanding and appreciating the same.' Should he go on acting upon this theory, which of our shelves is safe?"

"l.u.s.ter's Tables"--Luther's _Table Talk_.

"More's fine poem." The _Psychozoia Platonica_, 1642, of Henry More, the Platonist. Lamb seems to have returned the book, for it was not among his books that he left. Luther's _Table Talk_ seems also to have been given up.]

APPENDIX

CONSISTING OF THE LONGER Pa.s.sAGES FROM BOOKS REFERRED TO BY LAMB IN HIS LETTERS

COLERIDGE'S "ODE ON THE DEPARTING YEAR"

TEXT OF THE QUARTO, 1796

(_See Letter 19, page 75_)

STROPHE I

_Spirit_, who sweepest the wild Harp of Time, It is most hard with an untroubled Ear Thy dark inwoven Harmonies to hear!

Yet, mine eye fixt on Heaven's unchanged clime, Long had I listen'd, free from mortal fear, With inward stillness and a bowed mind: When lo! far onwards waving on the wind I saw the skirts of the DEPARTING YEAR!

Starting from my silent sadness Then with no unholy madness, Ere yet the entered cloud forbade my sight, I rais'd th' impetuous song, and solemnized his flight.

STROPHE II

Hither from the recent Tomb; From the Prison's direr gloom; From Poverty's heart-wasting languish: From Distemper's midnight anguish; Or where his two bright torches blending Love illumines Manhood's maze; Or where o'er cradled Infants bending Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze:

Hither, in perplexed dance, Ye WOES, and young-eyed JOYS, advance!

By Time's wild harp, and by the Hand Whose indefatigable Sweep Forbids its fateful strings to sleep, I bid you haste, a mixt tumultuous band!

From every private bower, And each domestic hearth, Haste for one solemn hour; And with a loud and yet a louder voice O'er the sore travail of the common earth Weep and rejoice!

Seiz'd in sore travail and portentous birth (Her eye-b.a.l.l.s flashing a pernicious glare) Sick NATURE struggles! Hark--her pangs increase!

Her groans are horrible! But O! most fair The promis'd Twins, she bears--EQUALITY and PEACE!

EPODE

I mark'd Ambition in his war-array: I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry-- "Ah! whither [wherefore] does the Northern Conqueress stay?

Groans not her Chariot o'er its onward way?"

Fly, mailed Monarch, fly!

Stunn'd by Death's "twice mortal" mace No more on MURDER'S lurid face Th' insatiate Hag shall glote with drunken eye!

Manes of th' unnumbered Slain!

Ye that gasp'd on WARSAW'S plain!

Ye that erst at ISMAIL'S tower, When human Ruin chok'd the streams, Fell in Conquest's glutted hour Mid Women's shrieks, and Infants' screams; Whose shrieks, whose screams were vain to stir Loud-laughing, red-eyed Ma.s.sacre!

Spirits of th' uncoffin'd Slain, Sudden blasts of Triumph swelling Oft at night, in misty train Rush around her narrow Dwelling!

Th' exterminating Fiend is fled-- (Foul her Life and dark her Doom!) Mighty Army of the Dead, Dance, like Death-fires, round her Tomb!

Then with prophetic song relate Each some scepter'd Murderer's fate!

When shall scepter'd SLAUGHTER cease?

Awhile He crouch'd, O Victor France!

Beneath the light'ning of thy Lance, With treacherous dalliance wooing PEACE.

But soon up-springing from his dastard trance The boastful, b.l.o.o.d.y Son of Pride betray'd His hatred of the blest and blessing Maid.

One cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light And sure, he deem'd, that Orb was quench'd in night: For still does MADNESS roam on GUILT'S bleak dizzy height!

ANTISTROPHE I

DEPARTING YEAR! 'twas on no earthly sh.o.r.e My Soul beheld thy Vision. Where, alone, Voiceless and stern, before the Cloudy Throne Aye MEMORY sits; there, garmented with gore, With many an unimaginable groan Thou storiedst thy sad Hours! Silence ensued: Deep Silence o'er th' etherial Mult.i.tude, Whose purple Locks with snow-white Glories shone.

Then, his eye wild ardors glancing, From the choired G.o.ds advancing, the SPIRIT of the EARTH made reverence meet And stood up beautiful before the Cloudy Seat!

ANTISTROPHE II

On every Harp, on every Tongue While the mute Enchantment hung; Like Midnight from a thundercloud, Spake the sudden SPIRIT loud-- "Thou in stormy blackness throning "Love and uncreated Light, "By the Earth's unsolac'd groaning "Seize thy terrors, Arm of Might!

"By Belgium's corse-impeded flood!

"By Vendee steaming Brother's blood!

"By PEACE with proffer'd insult scar'd, "Masked hate, and envying scorn!

"By Tears of Havoc yet unborn; "And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bar'd!

"But chief by Afric's wrongs "Strange, horrible, and foul!

"By what deep Guilt belongs "To the deaf Synod, 'full of gifts and lies!'

"By Wealth's insensate Laugh! By Torture's Howl!

"Avenger, rise!

"For ever shall the b.l.o.o.d.y Island scowl?

"For aye unbroken, shall her cruel Bow "Shoot Famine's arrows o'er thy ravag'd World?

"Hark! how wide NATURE joins her groans below-- "Rise, G.o.d of Nature, rise! Why sleep thy Bolts unhurl'd?"