town, sending members to Parliament, never entered into his definition-it was and is, simply, the banks of the Cam, or the fair Cam; as Oxford is the banks of the Isis, or the fair Isis. Yours in all humility, most "C. LAMB. illustrious Trismegist, Dyer, nonsense with me, and anything with delight to speak, especially George Dyer, who anybody; a great farmer, somewhat con- has no other name, nor idea, nor definition of cerned in an agricultural magazine-reads no Cambridge,—namely, its being a marketpoetry but Shakspeare, very intimate with Southey, but never reads his poetry, relishes George Dyer, thoroughly penetrates into the ridiculous wherever found, understands the first time (a great desideratum in common minds)—you need never twice speak to him; does not want explanations, translations, limitations, as Professor Godwin does when you make an assertion; up to anything; down to everything; whatever sapit hominem. A perfect man. All this farrago, which must perplex you to read, and has put me to a little trouble to select! only proves how impossible it is to describe a pleasant hand. You must see Rickman to know him, for he is a species in one. A new class. An exotic, any slip of which I am proud to put in my garden-pot. The clearest headed fellow. Fullest of matter, with least verbosity. If there be any alloy in my fortune to have met with such a man, Constant to the fame of Jem White, Lamb it is that he commonly divides his time did not fail to enlist Manning among the between town and country, having some foolish family ties at Christchurch, by which means he can only gladden our London hemisphere with returns of light. He is now going for six weeks." "At last I have written to Kemble, to know the event of my play, which was presented last Christmas. As I suspected, came an answer back that the copy was lost, and could not be found-no hint that anybody had to this day ever looked into it-with a courteous (reasonable!) request of another copy (if I had one by me,) and a promise of a definitive answer in a week. I could not resist so facile and moderate demand, so scribbled out another, omitting sundry things, such as the witch story, about half of the forest scene (which is too leisurely for story), and transposing that soliloquy about England getting drunk, which, like its reciter, stupidly stood alone, nothing prevenient or antevenient -and cleared away a good deal besides, and sent this copy, written all out (with alterations, &c. requiring judgment) in one day and a half! I sent it last night, and am in weekly expectation of the tolling-bell, and death-warrant. "This is all my London news. Send me some from the banks of Cam, as the poets "(Read on, there's more at the bottom.) "You ask me about the 'Farmer's Boy,'don't you think the fellow who wrote it (who is a shoemaker) has a poor mind? Don't you find he is always silly about poor Giles, and those abject kind of phrases, which mark a man that looks up to wealth? None of Burns's poet dignity. What do you think? I have just opened him; but he makes me sick." admirers of the "Falstaff's Letters." The next letter, referring to them is, however, more interesting for the light which it casts on Lamb's indifference to the politics of the time, and fond devotion to the past. TO MR. MANNING. you, "I hope by this time you are prepared to say, the 'Falstaff's letters' are a bundle of the sharpest, queerest, profoundest humours, of any these juice-drained latter times have spawned. I should have advertised that the meaning is frequently hard to be got at; and so are the future guineas, that now lie ripening and aurifying in the womb of some undiscovered Potosi; but dig, dig, dig, dig, Manning! I set to, with an unconquerable propulsion to write, with a lamentable want of what to write. My private goings on are orderly as the movements of the spheres, and stale as their music to angels' ears. Public affairs-except as they touch upon me, and so turn into private,-I cannot whip up my mind to feel any interest in. I grieve, indeed, that War, and Nature, and Mr. Pitt, that hangs up in Lloyd's best parlour, should have conspired to call up three necessaries, simple commoners as our fathers knew them, into the upper house of luxuries; bread, and beer, and coals, Manning. But as to France and accepted at Drury-Lane Theatre, and announced for representation on Saturday the 13th December in this year. Lamb supplied the epilogue, which he copied in the following letter addressed to Manning on the eventful day : TO MR. MANNING. "Dec. 13th, 1800. Frenchmen, and the Abbé Sièyes and his constitutions, I cannot make these present times present to me. I read histories of the past, and I live in them; although, to abstract senses, they are far less momentous, than the noises which keep Europe awake. I am reading 'Burnet's own Times.' Did you ever read that garrulous, pleasant history? He tells his story like an old man past political service, bragging to his sons on "I have received your letter this moment, winter evenings of the part he took in public not having been at the office. I have just transactions, when his old cap was new.' time to scribble down the epilogue. To your Full of scandal, which all true history is. epistle I will just reply, that I will certainly No palliatives; but all the stark wickedness, come to Cambridge before January is out: that actually gives the momentum to national I'll come when I can. You shall have an actors. Quite the prattle of age, and outlived emended copy of my play early next week. importance. Truth and sincerity staring out Mary thanks you; but her handwriting is upon you perpetually in alto relievo. Himself too feminine to be exposed to a Cambridge a party man-he makes you a party man. gentleman, though I endeavour to persuade None of the cursed philosophical Humeian her that you understand algebra, and must indifference, so cold, and unnatural, and understand her hand. The play is the man's inhuman! None of the cursed Gibbonian you wot of; but for Heaven's sake do not fine writing, so fine and composite. None mention it-it is to come out in a feigned of Dr. Robertson's periods with three mem-name, as one Tobin's. I will omit the introbers. None of Mr. Roscoe's sage remarks, ductory lines which connect it with the play, all so apposite, and coming in so clever, lest and give you the concluding tale, which is the reader should have had the trouble of the mass and bulk of the epilogue. The drawing an inference. Burnet's good old name is Jack INCIDENT. It is about promiseprattle I can bring present to my mind; I breaking-you will see it all, if you read the can make the revolution present to me-the French revolution, by a converse perversity in my nature, I fling as far from me. To quit this tiresome subject, and to relieve you from two or three dismal yawns, which I hear in spirit, I here conclude my more than commonly obtuse letter; dull, up to the dulness of a Dutch commentator on Shakspeare. "My love to Lloyd and to Sophia. While Lamb's dramatic destinies were in suspense, he was called on " to assist" at the production of a tragedy, by a friend, whose more mature reputation gave him readier access to the manager, but who had no better claim to success than himself. Mr. Godwin, whose powerful romance of Caleb Williams had supplied the materials for "The Iron Chest" of Colman, naturally aspired, on his own account, to the glory of the scene, and completed a tragedy under the title of "Antonio, or the Soldier's Return," which was papers. Jack, of dramatic genius justly vain, And has been seldom known to beat his wife; And has been seen to talk with Sheridan! Jack, who was always scared at the Gazette, Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept, And walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men; Visits his club: when lo! one fatal night His wife with horror view'd the well-known sight fate. The tragedy turned out a miracle of dulness for the world to wonder at, although Lamb always insisted it had one fine line, which he was fond of repeating-sole relic Kemble and John's hat, wig, snuff-box-well she knew his tricks of the else forgotten play. And Jack decamping at the hour of six. Quoth Jack, 'Why what the devil storm's a-brewing? About a harmless play why all this fright? Mrs. Siddons, the brother and sister of the drama, toiled through four acts and a half without applause or disapprobation; one speech was not more vapid than another; and so dead was the level of the dialogue, that, although its destiny was seen from afar, it presented no opportunity for hissing. But "N.B.-This was intended for Jack Ban- as the play drew towards a close, when, after nister to speak; but the sage managers have a scene of frigid chiding not vivified by any chosen Miss Heard, except Miss Tidswell, fire of Kemble's own, Antonio drew his the worst actress ever seen or heard. Now, sword and plunged it into the heroine's I remember I have promised the loan of my bosom, the "sad civility" of the audience play. I will lend it instantly, and you shall vanished, they started as at a real murder, get it ('pon honour !) by this day week. and hooted the actors from the stage. "I must go and dress for the boxes! First "Philosophy," which could not "make a night! Finding I have time, I transcribe Juliet," sustained the author through the the rest. Observe, you have read the last trial. He sat on one of the front benches of first; it begins thus:-The names I took from a little outline G. gave me. I have not read the play! 'Ladies, ye've seen how Guzman's consort died, A breach of promise was a sort of crime- the pit, unmoved amidst the storm. When the first act passed off without a hand, he expressed his satisfaction at the good sense of the house; the proper season of applause had not arrived;" all was exactly as it should be. The second act proceeded to its close in the same uninterrupted calm; his friends became uneasy, but still his optimism prevailed; he could afford to wait. And though he did at last admit the great movement was somewhat tardy, and that the audience seemed rather patient than interested, he did not lose his confidence till the tumult arose, and then he submitted with quiet dignity to the fate of genius, too lofty to be understood by a world as yet in its childhood! Notwithstanding this rude repulse, Mr. Godwin retained his taste for the theatre to the last. On every first night of "Now you have it all-how do you like a new piece, whether tragedy, comedy, or it? I am going to hear it recited!!! "C. L." Alas for human hopes! The play was decisively damned, and the epilogue shared its farce, whether of friend or foe, he sat with gentle interest in a side-box, and bore its fate, whatever it might be, with resignation, as he had done his own. The following is Lamb's account of the catastrophe rendered to Manning, in which the facetious charge against the unlucky author of "Violent and "A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or Satanical Pride of Heart," has reference to three times at both theatres-and advertised himself." some banter which Lamb had encountered among his friends by the purposed title of his own play, "Pride's Cure," and his disquisition in its defence. TO MR. MANNING. "Dec. 16th, 1800. never answer; Dodsley's Old Plays, Malone's Shakspeare (still harping upon thy play, thy philosophy abandoned meanwhile to christians and superstitious minds); nay, I believe (if I can believe my memory), that the "We are damned!-Not the facetious epilogue itself could save us. For, as the editor of the Morning Post, quick-sighted ambitious Encyclopedia itself was part of gentleman! hath this morning truly observed, (I beg pardon if I falsify his words, their profound sense I am sure I retain,) both prologue and epilogue were worthy of accompanying such a piece; and indeed (mark the profundity, Mr. Manning) were received with proper indignation by such of the audience only as thought either worth attending to. Professor, thy glories wax dim! Again, the incomparable author of the 'True Briton' declareth in his paper (bearing same date) that the epilogue was an indifferent attempt at humour and character, and failed in both. I forbear to mention the other papers, because I have not read them. O Professor, how different thy feelings now (quantum mutatus ab illo professore, qui in agris philosophiæ tantas victorias acquisivisti),— how different thy proud feelings but one little week ago,-thy anticipation of thy nine nights, those visionary claps, which have soothed thy soul by day, and thy dreams by night! Calling in accidentally on the Professor while he was out, I was ushered into the study; and my nose quickly (most sagacious always) pointed me to four tokens lying loose upon thy table, Professor, which indicated thy violent and satanical pride of heart. Imprimis, there caught mine eye a list of six persons, thy friends, whom thou didst meditate inviting to a sumptuous dinner on the Thursday, anticipating the profits of thy Saturday's play to answer charges; I was in the honoured file! Next, a stronger evidence of thy violent and almost satanical pride, lay a list of all the morning papers (from the 'Morning Chronicle' downwards to the 'Porcupine'), with the places of their respective offices, where thou wast meditating to insert, and didst insert, an elaborate sketch of the story of thy play; stones in thy enemy's hand to bruise thee with, and severely wast thou bruised, O Professor! nor do I know what oil to pour into thy wounds. Next, which convinced me to a dead conviction, of thy pride, violent and almost satanical pride-lay a list of books, which thy un-tragedy-favoured pocket could thy meditated acquisitions; but many a playbook was there. All these visions are damned; and thou, Professor, must read Shakspeare in future out of a common edition; and, hark ye, pray read him to a little better purpose! Last and strongest against thee (in colours manifest as the hand upon Belshazzar's wall), lay a volume of poems by C. Lloyd and C. Lamb. Thy heart misgave thee, that thy assistant might possibly not have talent enough to furnish thee an epilogue! Manning, all these things came over my mind; all the gratulations that would have thickened upon him, and even some have glanced aside upon his humble friend; the vanity, and the fame, and the profits (the Professor is 500l. ideal money out of pocket by this failure, besides 2007. he would have got for the copyright, and the Professor is never much beforehand with the world; what he gets is all by the sweat of his brow and dint of brain, for the Professor, though a sure man, is also a slow); and now to muse upon thy altered physiognomy, thy pale and squalid appearance (a kind of blue sickness about the eyelids), and thy crest fallen, and thy proud demand of 2007. from thy bookseller changed to an uncertainty of his taking it at all, or giving thee full 50%. The Professor has won my heart by this his mournful catastrophe. You remember Marshall, who dined with him at my house; I met him in the lobby immediately after the damnation of the Professor's play, and he looked to me like an angel: his face was lengthened, and all over perspiration; I never saw such a care-fraught visage; I could have hugged him, I loved him so intensely. 'From every pore of him a perfume fell.' I have seen that man in many situations, and, from my soul, I think that a more god-like honest soul exists not in this world. The Professor's poor nerves trembling with the recent shock, he hurried him away to my house to supper, and there we comforted him as well as we could. He came to consult me about a chige of catastrophe; but alas! the piece was condemned long before that crisis. I at first humoured him with a specious proposi- a pleasure in beholding a delicate and welltion, but have since joined his true friends in advising him to give it up. He did it with a pang, and is to print it as his. "L." In another letter, a few days after, Lamb thus recurs to the subject, and closes the century in anticipation of a visit to his friend at Cambridge. TO MR. MANNING. "Dec. 27th, 1800. chosen assortment of teals, ortolans, the unctuous and palate-soothing flesh of geese, wild and tame, nightingales' brains, the sensorium of a young sucking pig, or any other Christmas dish, which I leave to the judgment of you and the cook of Gonville. CHAPTER VII. [1801 to 1804.] "C. LAMB." TO MANNING, WORDSWORTH, AND COLERIDGE; JOHN WOODVIL REJECTED, PUBLISHED, AND REVIEWED. "As for the other Professor, he has actually begun to dive into Tavernier and Chardin's LETTERS Persian Travels for a story, to form a new drama for the sweet tooth of this fastidious age. Hath not Bethlehem College a fair action for non-residence against such professors? Are poets so few in this age, that He must write poetry? Is morals a subject so exhausted, that he must quit that line? Is the metaphysic well (without a bottom) drained dry? "If I can guess at the wicked pride of the Professor's heart, I would take a shrewd wager, that he disdains ever again to dip his pen in Prose. Adieu, ye splendid theories! Farewell, dreams of political justice! Lawsuits, where I was counsel for Archbishop Fenelon versus my own mother, in the famous fire cause! "Vanish from my mind, professors, one and all. I have metal more attractive on foot. "Man of many snipes,—I will sup with thee, Deo volente, et diabolo nolente, on Monday night, the 5th of January, in the new year, and crush a cup to the infant century. "A word or two of my progress. Embark at six o'clock in the morning, with a fresh gale, on a Cambridge one-decker; very cold till eight at night; land at St. Mary's light-house, muffins and coffee upon table (or any other curious production of Turkey, or both Indies), snipes exactly at nine, punch to commence at ten, with argument; difference of opinion is expected to take place about eleven; perfect unanimity, with some haziness and dimness, before twelve.-N. B. My single affection is not so singly wedded to snipes; but the curious and epicurean eye would also take THE ominous postponement of Lamb's theatrical hopes was followed by their disappointment at the commencement of the century. He was favoured with at least one interview by the stately manager of Drury-lane, Mr. Kemble, who extended his high-bred courtesy even to authors, whom he invariably attended to the door of his house in Great Russell-street, and bade them " beware of the step." Godwin's catastrophe had probably rendered him less solicitous to encounter a similar peril; which the fondest admirers of " John Woodvil" will not regret that it escaped. While the occasional roughness of its verse would have been felt as strange to ears as yet unused to the old dramatists whom Lamb's Specimens had not then made familiar to the town, the delicate beauties enshrined within it would scarcely have been perceived in the glare of the theatre. Exhibiting "the depth, and not the tumults of the soul,"-presenting a female character of modest and retiring loveliness and noble purpose, but undistracted with any violent emotion,-and developing a train of circumstances which work out their gentle triumphs on the heart only of the hero, without stirring accident or vivid grouping of persons,-it would scarcely have supplied sufficient of coarse interest to disarm the critical spirit which it would certainly have encountered in all its bitterness. Lamb cheerfully consoled himself by publishing it; and at the close of the year 1801 it appeared in a small volume, of humble appearance, with the "Fragments of Burton,” (to which Lamb alluded in one of his previous letters,) |