Mary or both will come and see her soon. The frost is cruel, and we have both colds. I take Pills again, which battle with your Wine; and Victory hovers doubtful. By the by, tho' not disinclined to presents, I remember our bargain to take a dozen at sale price, and must demur. With once again thanks and best loves to Mrs. A. Turn over-Yours, C. LAMB. LETTER CCLV.] To JOHN B. DIBDIN. E. I. H., January 11, 1825. I My Dear Sir-Pray return my best thanks to your father for his little volume. It is like all of his I have seen-spirited, good-humoured, and redolent of the wit and humour of a century ago. He should have lived with Gay and his set. The Chessiad is so clever that I relished it in spite of my total ignorance of the game. have it not before me, but I remember a capital simile of the Charwoman letting in her Watchman husband, which is better than Butler's Lobster turned to Red. Hazard is a grand character-Jove in his Chair. When you are disposed to leave your one room for my six, Colebrooke is where it was; and my sister begs me to add that as she is disappointed of meeting your sister your way, we shall be most happy to see her our way, when you have an evening to spare. Do not stand on ceremonies and introductions, but come at once. I need not say that if you can induce your father to join the party it will be so much the pleasanter. Can you name an evening next week? I give you long credit. Meantime am, as usual, yours truly, C. L. When I saw the Chessiad advertised by C. D. the younger, I hoped it might be yours. What title is left for you? Charles Dibdin the younger, junior. LETTER CCLVI.] To MISS HUTCHINSON. The brevity of this is owing to scratching it off at my desk amid expected interruptions. By habit, I can write letters only at office. January 20, 1825. The The Dear Miss H.-Thank you for a noble goose, which wanted only the massive incrustation that we used to pick-axe open, about this season, in Old Gloucester Place. When shall we eat another goose pie together? pheasant, too, must not be forgotten; twice as big, and half as good as a Partridge. You ask about the editor of the London; I know of none. This first specimen is flat and pert enough to justify subscribers who grudge t'other shilling. De Quincey's "Parody" was submitted to him before printed, and had his Probatum. "Horns" is in a poor taste, resembling the most laboured papers in the Spectator. I had signed it "Jack Horner"; but Taylor and Hessey said it would be thought an offensive article unless I put my known signature to it, and wrung from me my slow consent. But did you read the "Memoir of Liston"?-and did you guess whose it was? Of all the lies I ever put off, I value this most. It is from top to toe, every paragraph, Pure Invention, and has passed for gospel; has been republished in newspapers, and in the penny play-bills of the night, as an authentic account. I shall certainly go to the naughty man some day for my fibbings. In the next Number I figure as a Theologian! and have attacked my late brethren, the Unitarians. What Jack-Pudding tricks I shall play next, I know not; I am almost at the end of my tether. Coleridge is quite blooming, but his book has not budded yet. I hope I have spelt Torquay right now, and that this will find you all mending, and looking forward to a London flight with the Spring. Winter, we have had none, but plenty of foul weather. Some folks might call me sinner, The other half a dinner. "The plan was good, as some will say ; Because, in this poor starving day, Few can afford a whole one." I have I have made the lame one still lamer by imperfect memory; but spite of bald diction, a little done to it might improve it into a good one. You have nothing else to do at Torquay. Suppose you try it. Well, God bless you all, as wishes Mary most sincerely, with many thanks for letter, etc. ELIA. TO BERNARD BARTON. LETTER CCLVII.] February 10, 1825. Dear B. B.-I am vexed that ugly paper should have offended. I kept it as clear from objectionable phrases as possible, and it was Hessey's fault, and my weakness, that it did not appear anonymous. No more of it, for God's sake. The " Spirit of the Age" is by Hazlitt. The characters of Coleridge, etc. he had done better in former publications, the praise and the abuse much stronger, etc.; but the new ones are capitally done. Horne Tooke is a matchless portrait. My advice is, to borrow it rather than buy it. I have it. He has laid too many colours on my likeness; but I have had so much injustice done me in my own name, that I make a rule of accepting as much over-measure to Elia as gentlemen think proper to bestow. Lay it on and spare not. Your gentleman brother sets my mouth a-watering after liberty. Oh that I were kicked out of Leadenhall with every mark of indignity, and a competence in my fob! The birds of the air would not be so free as I should. How I would prance and curvet it, and pick up cowslips, and ramble about purposeless, as an idiot! The Authormometer is a good fancy. I have caused great speculation in the dramatic (not thy) world by a lying "Life of Liston," all pure invention. The town has swallowed it, and it is copied into newspapers, play-bills, etc., as authentic. You do not know the Droll, and possibly missed reading the article (in our first Number, new series). A life more improbable for him to have lived would not be easily invented. But your rebuke, coupled with "Dream on J. Bunyan," checks me. I'd rather do more in my favourite way, but feel dry. I must laugh sometimes. I am poor Hypochondriacus, and not Liston. The second Number is all trash. What are T. and H. about? Why did poor Scott die? There was comfort in writing with such associates as were his little band of scribblers; some gone away, some affronted away, and I am left as the solitary widow looking for water-cresses. The only clever hand they have is Darley, who has written on the Dramatists under the name of John Lacy. But his function seems suspended. I have been harassed more than usually at office, which has stopt my correspondence lately. I write with a confused aching head, and you must accept this apology for a letter. I will do something soon, if I can, as a peace-offering to the queen of the East Angles-something she shan't scold about. For the present farewell. Thine, C. L. I am fifty years old this day. Drink my health. To THOMAS MANNING. LETTER CCLVIII.] [Early in 1825.] My dear M.-You might have come inopportunely a week since, when we had an inmate. At present and for as long as ever you like, our castle is at your service. I saw Tuthill] yesternight, who has done for me what may "To all my nights and days to come, Give solely sovran sway and masterdom." But I dare not hope, for fear of disappointment. I can- C. LAMB. LETTER CCLIX.] TO BERNARD BARTON. March 23, 1825. Dear B. B.-I have had no impulse to write, or attend to any single object but myself for weeks pastmy single self, I-by myself-I. I am sick of hope deferred. The grand wheel is in agitation, that is to turn up my Fortune; but round it rolls, and will turn up nothing. I have a glimpse of freedom, of becoming a Gentleman at large; but I am put off from day to day. I have offered my resignation, and it is neither accepted nor rejected. Eight weeks am I kept in this fearful suspense. Guess what an absorbing stake I feel it. I am not conscious of the existence of friends present or absent. The East India Directors alone can be that thing to me or not. I have just learned that nothing will be decided this week. Why the next? Why any week? It has fretted me into an itch of the fingers; I rub 'em against paper, and write to you, rather than not allay this scorbuta. While I can write, let me abjure you to have no doubts of IRVING. Let Mr. Mitford drop his disrespect. Irving has prefixed a dedication (of a missionary subject, first part) to Coleridge, the most beautiful, cordial, and sincere. He there acknowledges his obligation to S. T. C. 1 |