Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem; A magistrate who, while the evil-doer He kept in terror, could respect the poor, And not for every trifle hara.s.s them-- As some, divine and laic, too oft do.

This man's a private loss and public too.

[Daniel Rogers, the banker's elder brother, had just died.]

LETTER 480

CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON

[P.M. March 25, 1829.]

Dear B.B.--I send you by desire Barley's very poetical poem. You will like, I think, the novel headings of each scene. Scenical directions in verse are novelties. With it I send a few _duplicates_, which are _therefore_ no value to me, and may amuse an idle hour. Read "Christmas," 'tis the production of a young author, who reads all your writings. A good word from you about his little book would be as balm to him. It has no pretensions, and makes none. But parts are pretty. In "Field's Appendix" turn to a Poem called the Kangaroo. It is in the best way of our old poets, if I mistake not. I have just come from Town, where I have been to get my bit of quarterly pension. And have brought home, from stalls in Barbican, the old Pilgrim's Progress with the prints--Vanity Fair, &c.--now scarce. Four shillings. Cheap. And also one of whom I have oft heard and had dreams, but never saw in the flesh--that is, in sheepskin--The whole theologic works of--

THOMAS AQUINAS!

My arms aked with lugging it a mile to the stage, but the burden was a pleasure, such as old Anchises was to the shoulders of Aeneas--or the Lady to the Lover in old romance, who having to carry her to the top of a high mountain--the price of obtaining her--clamber'd with her to the top, and fell dead with fatigue.

O the glorious old Schoolmen!

There must be something in him. Such great names imply greatness. Who hath seen Michael Angelo's things--of us that never pilgrimaged to Rome--and yet which of us disbelieves his greatness. How I will revel in his cobwebs and subtleties, till my brain spins!

N.B. I have writ in the old Hamlet, offer it to Mitford in my name, if he have not seen it. Tis woefully below our editions of it. But keep it, if you like. (What is M. to me?)

I do not mean this to go for a letter, only to apprize you, that the parcel is booked for you this 25 March 1829 from the Four Swans Bishopsgate.

With both our loves to Lucy and A.K. Yours Ever

C.L.

["Darley's... poem"--_Sylvia; or, The May Queen_, by George Darley.

"Christmas"--a poem by Edward Moxon, dedicated to Lamb.

"Field's Appendix"--_Geographical Memoirs on New South Wales_, edited by Barron Field, with his _First-Fruits of Australian Poetry_ as Appendix.

The old romance, Dr. Paget Toynbee points out, is _Les Dous Amanz_ of Marie of France, which Lamb had read in Miss Betham's metrical translation, _The Lay of Marie_.]

LETTER 481

CHARLES LAMB TO MISS SARAH JAMES

[No date. ? April, 1829.]

We have just got your letter. I think Mother Reynolds will go on quietly, Mrs. Scrimpshaw having kittened. The name of the late Laureat was Henry James Pye, and when his 1st Birthday Ode came out, which was very poor, somebody being asked his opinion of it, said:--

And when the Pye was open'd The birds began to sing, And was not this a dainty dish To set before the King!

Pye was brother to old Major Pye, and father to Mrs. Arnold, and uncle to a General Pye, all friends of Miss Kelly. Pye succeeded Thos. Warton, Warton succeeded Wm. Whitehead, Whitehead succeeded Colley Cibber, Cibber succeeded Eusden, Eusden succeeded Thos. Shadwell, Shadwell succeeded Dryden, Dryden succeeded Davenant, Davenant G.o.d knows whom.

There never was a Rogers a Poet Laureat; there is an old living Poet of that name, a Banker as you know, Author of the "Pleasures of Memory,"

where Moxon goes to breakfast in a fine house in the green Park, but he was never Laureat. Southey is the present one, and for anything I know or care, Moxon may succeed him. We have a copy of "Xmas" for you, so you may give your own to Mary as soon as you please. We think you need not have exhibited your mountain shyness before M.B. He is neither shy himself, nor patronizes it in others.--So with many thanks, good-bye.

Emma comes on Thursday. C.L.

The Poet Laureat, whom Davenant succeeded was Rare 'Ben Jonson,' who I believe was the first regular Laureat with the appointment of 100 a year and a b.u.t.t of Sack or Canary--so add that to my little list.--C.L.

[Mr. Macdonald dates this letter December 31, 1828, perhaps rightly. I have dated it at a venture April, 1829, because Moxon's _Christmas_ was published in March of that year. It is the only letter to Mary Lamb's nurse, Miss James, that exists. Mrs. Reynolds was Lamb's aged pensioner, whom we have met. Pye died in 1813 and was succeeded by Southey. The author of the witticism on his first ode was George Steevens, the critic. The comment gained point from the circ.u.mstance that Pye had drawn largely on images from bird life in his verses.]

LETTER 482

CHARLES LAMB TO H. CRABB ROBINSON

[P.M. April ? 1829.]

Dear Robinson, we are afraid you will slip from us from England without again seeing us. It would be charity to come and see me. I have these three days been laid up with strong rheumatic pains, in loins, back, shoulders. I shriek sometimes from the violence of them. I get scarce any sleep, and the consequence is, I am restless, and want to change sides as I lie, and I cannot turn without resting on my hands, and so turning all my body all at once like a log with a lever. While this rainy weather lasts, I have no hope of alleviation. I have tried flannels and embrocation in vain. Just at the hip joint the pangs sometimes are so excruciating, that I cry out. It is as violent as the cramp, and far more continuous. I am ashamed to whine about these complaints to you, who can ill enter into them. But indeed they are sharp. You go about, in rain or fine at all hours without discommodity.

I envy you your immunity at a time of life not much removed from my own.

But you owe your exemption to temperance, which it is too late for me to pursue. I in my life time have had my good things. Hence my frame is brittle--yours strong as bra.s.s. I never knew any ailment you had. You can go out at night in all weathers, sit up all hours. Well, I don't want to moralise. I only wish to say that if you are enclined to a game at Doubly Dumby, I would try and bolster up myself in a chair for a rubber or so. My days are tedious, but less so and less painful than my nights. May you never know the pain and difficulty I have in writing so much. Mary, who is most kind, joins in the wish.

C. LAMB.

LETTER 483

CHARLES LAMB TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON

[P.M. April 17, 1829.]

I do confess to mischief. It was the subtlest diabolical piece of malice, heart of man has contrived. I have no more rheumatism than that poker. Never was freer from all pains and aches. Every joint sound, to the tip of the ear from the extremity of the lesser toe. The report of thy torments was blown circuitously here from Bury. I could not resist the jeer. I conceived you writhing, when you should just receive my congratulations. How mad you'd be. Well, it is not in my method to inflict pangs. I leave that to heaven. But in the existing pangs of a friend, I have a share. His disquietude crowns my exemption. I imagine you howling, and pace across the room, shooting out my free arms legs &c.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Handrawn lines]

this way and that way, with an a.s.surance of not kindling a spark of pain from them. I deny that Nature meant us to sympathise with agonies. Those face-contortions, retortions, distortions, have the merriness of antics.

Nature meant them for farce--not so pleasant to the actor indeed, but Grimaldi cries when we laugh, and 'tis but one that suffers to make thousands rejoyce.

You say that Shampooing is ineffectual. But _per se_ it is good, to show the introv[ol]utions, extravolutions, of which the animal frame is capable. To show what the creature is receptible of, short of dissolution.

You are worst of nights, a'nt you?

Twill be as good as a Sermon to you to lie abed all this night, and meditate the subject of the day. 'Tis Good Friday. How appropriate!

Think when but your little finger pains you, what endured to white-wash you and the rest of us.