soft voice which the idea of articulated words raises (almost imperceptibly to you) in a silent reader. I seem too deaf to see what I read. But with a touch or two of returning zephyr my head will melt. What lies you poets tell about the May! It is the most ungenial part of the year. Cold crocuses, cold primroses, you take your blossoms in ice-a painted sun. "Unmeaning joy around appears, And Nature smiles as if she sneers." It is ill with me when I begin to look which way the wind sets. Ten years ago, I literally did not know the point from the broad end of the vane, which it was that indicated the quarter. I hope these ill winds have blown over you as they do through me. Kindest remembrances to you and yours. C. L. To SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. LETTER CCLXXVIII.] June 1, 1826. But Dear Coleridge-If I know myself, nobody more detests the display of personal vanity, which is implied in the act of sitting for one's picture, than myself. the fact is, that the likeness which accompanies this letter was stolen from my person at one of my unguarded moments by some too partial artist, and my friends are pleased to think that he has not much flattered me. Whatever its merits may be, you, who have so great an interest in the original, will have a satisfaction in tracing the features of one that has so long esteemed you. There are times when in a friend's absence these graphic representations of him almost seem to bring back the man himself. The painter, whoever he was, seems to have taken me in one of those disengaged moments, if I may so term them, when the native character is so much more honestly displayed than can be possible in the restraints of an enforced sitting attitude. Perhaps it rather de scribes me as a thinking man, than a man in the act of thought. Whatever its pretensions, I know it will be dear to you, towards whom I should wish my thoughst to flow in a sort of an undress rather than in the more studied graces of diction. I am, dear Coleridge, yours sincerely, LETTER CCLXXIX.] To J. B. DIBDIN. C. LAMB. Friday, some day in June, 1826. Dear D.-My first impulse upon opening your letter was pleasure at seeing your old neat hand, nine parts gentlemanly with a modest dash of the clerical: my second, a Thought, natural enough this hot weather-am I to answer all this? Why 'tis as long as those to the Ephesians and Galatians put together, I have counted the words for curiosity. . . I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man. Your fair critic in the coach reminds me of a Scotchman who assured me he did not see much in Shakspeare. I replied, I dare say not. He felt the equivoke, looked awkward and reddish, but soon returned to the attack by saying that he thought Burns was as good as Shakspeare. I said that I had no doubt he was-to a Scotchman. We exchanged no more words that day. Your account of the fierce faces in the Hangings, with the presumed interlocution of the Eagle and the Tiger, amused us greatly. You cannot be so very bad while you can pick mirth off from rotten walls. But let me hear you have escaped out of your oven. . . Your business, I take it, is bathing, not baking. Let me hear that you have clambered up to Lover's Seat: it is as fine in that neighbourhood as Juan Fernandez--as lonely, too, when the Fishing-boats are not out; I have sat for hours, staring upon a shipless sea. so grand as when it is left to itself. it a sea-mew or two improves it. church which is a very Protestant Loretto, and seems dropt The salt sea is never One cock-boat spoils And go to the little hermit who was at once It is not too big. Go your portmanteau, and I It must have been erected by some angel for the use of a parishioner and a whole parish. in the night; bring it away in will plant it in my garden. in the very infancy of British Christianity, for the two or three first converts; yet with it all the appertances of a church of the first magnitude-its pulpit, its pews, its baptismal font; a cathedral in a nut-shell. Seven people would crowd it like a Caledonian Chapel. The minister that divides the Word there must give lumping pennyworths. It is built to the text of " two or three assembled in my name." It reminds me of the grain of mustard seed. If the glebe-land is proportionate it may yield two potatoes. Tithes out of it could be no more split than a hair. Its First fruits must be its Last, for 'twould never produce a couple. It is truly the strait and narrow way, and few there be (of London visitants) that find it. The still small voice is surely to be found there, if anywhere. A sounding-board is merely there for ceremony. It is secure from earthquakes, not more from sanctity than size, for 'twould feel a mountain thrown upon it no more than a taper-worm would. Go and see, but not without your spectacles. By the way, there's a capital farm-house twothirds of the way to the Lover's Seat, with incomparable plum cake, ginger-beer, etc. Mary bids me warn you not to read the Anatomy of Melancholy in your present low way. You'll fancy yourself a pipkin or a headless bear, as Burton speaks of. You'll be lost in a maze of remedies for a labyrinth of diseasements a plethora of cures. Read Fletcher; above all the Spanish Curate, the Thief, or Little Night Walker, the Wit Without Money, and the Lover's Pilgrimage. Laugh and come home fat. Neither do we think Sir T. Browne quite the thing for you just at present. Fletcher is as light as soda-water. Browne and Burton are too strong potions for an Invalid. And don't thumb and dirt the books. Take care of the bindings. Lay a leaf of silver paper under 'em as you read them. And don't smoke tobacco over 'em-the leaves will fall in and burn or dirty their namesakes. If you find any dusty atoms of the Indian Weed crumbled up in the Beaumont and Fletcher, they are mine. But then, you know, so is the Folio also. A pipe and a comedy of Fletcher's the last thing of a night is the best recipe for light dreams, and to scatter away Nightmares. Probatum est. But do as you like about the former. Only, cut the Baker's. You will come home else all crust; Rankings must chip you before you can appear in his counting-house. And, my dear Peter Fin Junr., do contrive to see the sea at least once before you return. You'll be asked about it in the Old Jewry. It will appear singular not to have seen it. And rub up your Muse-the family Muse-and send us a rhyme or so. Don't waste your wit upon that damned Dry Salter. I never knew but one Dry Salter who could relish those mellow effusions, and he broke. You knew Tommy Hill, the wittiest of Dry Salters. Salters! what a word for this thirsty weather! I must drink after it. Here's to thee, my dear Dibdin, and to our having you again snug and well at Colebrooke. But our nearest hopes are to hear again from you shortly. An epistle only a quarter as agreeable as your last would be a treat. Yours most truly, Timothy B. Dibdin, Esq., Dry C. LAMB. LETTER CCLXXX.] July 14, 1826. BECAUSE you boast poetic grandsire, I had a Dad that would for half a bet Have put down thine thro' half the alphabet. In faith, dear Tim, your rhymes are slovenly, And smell most vilely of the Baker's. Right Watering Place and Cockney Dribbler, Would tinkle into rhyme with "Plan, Sir"? I had a sire, that at plain Crambo Rhymed you to death, like "rats in Ireland," |