letter which is lost, and which Coleridge had hundredfold more dearly, than if she heaped combated. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Dec. 10th, 1796. 6 'line upon line,' out Hannah-ing Hannah More; and had rather hear you sing 'Did a very little baby' by your family fire-side, than listen to you, when you were repeating "I had put my letter into the post rather one of Bowles's sweetest sonnets, in your hastily, not expecting to have to acknowledge sweet manner, while we two were indulging another from you so soon. This morning's sympathy, a solitary luxury, by the fire-side present has made me alive again: my last at the Salutation. Yet have I no higher night's epistle was childishly querulous; but ideas of heaven. Your company was one you have put a little life into me, and I will cordial in this melancholy vale' - the thank you for your remembrance of me, while remembrance of it is a blessing partly, and my sense of it is yet warm; for if I linger a partly a curse. When I can abstract myself day or two I may use the same phrase of from things present, I can enjoy it with a acknowledgment, or similar, but the feeling freshness of relish; but it more constantly that dictates it now will be gone. I shall operates to an unfavourable comparison with send you a caput mortuum, not a cor vivens. the uninteresting converse I always and only Thy Watchman's, thy bellman's verses, I do can partake in. Not a soul loves Bowles retort upon thee, thou libellous varlet,-why here; scarce one has heard of Burns; few you cried the hours yourself, and who made but laugh at me for reading my Testament, you so proud! But I submit, to show my-they talk a language I understand not, I humility most implicitly to your dogmas. I conceal sentiments that would be a puzzle to reject entirely the copy of verses you reject. them. I can only converse with you by With regard to my leaving off versifying you letter, and with the dead in their books. have said so many pretty things, so many My sister, indeed, is all I can wish in a fine compliments, ingeniously decked out in companion; but our spirits are alike poorly, the garb of sincerity, and undoubtedly our reading and knowledge from the selfspringing from a present feeling somewhat same sources; our communication with the like sincerity, that you might melt the most scenes of the world alike narrow; never un-muse-ical soul,-did you not (now for a having kept separate company, or any 'comRowland compliment for your profusion of pany' together—never having read separate Olivers), did you not in your very epistle, by books, and few books together—what knowthe many pretty fancies and profusion of ledge have we to convey to each other? In heart displayed in it, dissuade and discourage our little range of duties and connexions, me from attempting anything after you. At how few sentiments can take place, without present I have not leisure to make verses, friends, with few books, with a taste for nor anything approaching to a fondness for religion, rather than a strong religious habit! the exercise. In the ignorant present time, We need some support, some leading-strings who can answer for the future man? At to cheer and direct us; you talk very wisely, lovers' perjuries Jove laughs'-and poets and be not sparing of your advice. Continue have sometimes a disingenuous way of for- to remember us, and to show us you do swearing their occupation. This though is remember us: we will take as lively an not my case. Publish your Burns when and interest in what concerns you and yours. how you like, it will be new to me,-my All I can add to your happiness, will be memory of it is very confused, and tainted sympathy: you can add to mine more; you with unpleasant associations. Burns was the can teach me wisdom. I am indeed an god of my idolatry, as Bowles of yours. I unreasonable correspondent; but I was unam jealous of your fraternising with Bowles, willing to let my last night's letter go off when I think you relish him more than without this qualifier: you will perceive by Burns, or my old favourite, Cowper. But this my mind is easier, and you will rejoice. you conciliate matters when you talk of the I do not expect or wish you to write, till you 'divine chit-chat' of the latter by the are moved; and, of course, shall not, till you expression, I see you thoroughly relish him. announce to me that event, think of writing I love Mrs. Coleridge for her excuses an myself. Love to Mrs. Coleridge and David Hartley, and my kind remembrance to Lloyd CHAPTER III. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. in those old paintings, have been mostly of a dirty drab-coloured yellow-a dull gambogium. Keep your old line; it will excite a confused kind of pleasurable idea in the reader's mind, not clear enough to be called a conception, nor just enough, I think, to reduce to painting. It is a rich line, you say; and riches hide a many faults." And the word "wreathed " was ultimately adopted, instead of purple or golden: but the snow-white glories remain. Not satisfied with the dedication of his THE volume which was to combine the early poetry of the three friends was not completed in the year 1796, and proceeded portion of the volume to his sister, and the slowly through the press in the following Lamb urged on Coleridge the insertion of sonnet which had been sent to the press, year; Lamb occasionally submitting an additional sonnet, or correction of one already another, which seems to have been ultimately sent, to the judgment of Coleridge, and filling publication. The rejected sonnet, and the withheld as too poor in poetical merit for long letters with minute suggestions on references made to it by the writer, have Coleridge's share of the work, and high, but an interest now beyond what mere fancy can honest expressions of praise of particular give. After various critical remarks on an images and thoughts. The eulogy is only ode of Coleridge, he thus introduced the interesting as indicative of the reverential feeling with which Lamb regarded the genius of Coleridge-but one or two specimens of the gentle rebuke which he ventured on, when the gorgeousness of Coleridge's language seemed to oppress his sense, are worthy of preservation. The following relates to a line in the noble Ode on the Departing Year, in which Coleridge had written of "Th' ethereal multitude, Whose purple locks with snow-white glories shone." "Purple locks, and snow-white glories ;' -these are things the muse talks about when, to borrow H. Walpole's witty phrase, she is not finely-frenzied, only a little lightheaded, that's all-'Purple locks!' They may manage things differently in fairyland; but your 'golden tresses' are to my fancy." On this remonstrance Coleridge changed the "purple" into "golden," defending his original epithet; and Lamb thus gave up the point : "Golden locks and snow-white glories' are as incongruous as your former; and if the great Italian painters, of whom my friend knows about as much as the man in the moon-if these great gentlemen be on your side, I see no harm in your retaining the purple. The glories that I have observed to encircle the heads of saints and madonnas subject: "If the fraternal sentiment conveyed in the following lines will atone for the total want of anything like merit or genius in it, I desire you will print it next after my other sonnet to my sister. 'Friend of my earliest years and childish days, "This has been a sad long letter of business, with no room in it for what honest Bunyan terms heart-work. I have just room left to congratulate you on your removal to Stowey; to wish success to all your projects; to 'bid fair peace' be to that house; to send my love and best wishes, breathed warmly, after your dear Sara, and her little David Hartley. If Lloyd be with you, bid him write to ine: I feel to whom I am obliged primarily, for two very friendly letters I have received already from him. A dainty natural to thousands, nor ought properly to be called poetry, I see; still it will tend to keep present to my mind a view of things which I ought to indulge. These six lines, sweet book that 'Nature and Art' is.-I am in the feelings, but what is common and at present re-re-reading Priestley's Examination of the Scotch Doctors: how the rogue strings 'em up! three together! You have no doubt read that clear, strong, humourous, most entertaining piece of reasoning? If too, have not, to a reader, a connectedness not, procure it, and be exquisitely amused. I wish I could get more of Priestley's works. Can you recommend me to any more books, easy of access, such as circulating shops afford! God bless you and yours. "Monday morning, at office." "Poor Mary is very unwell with a sore throat and a slight species of scarlet fever. God bless her too." He recurs to the subject in his next letter, which is also interesting, as urging Coleridge to attempt some great poem worthy of his genius. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Jan. 10th, 1797. with the foregoing. Omit it, if you like.What a treasure it is to my poor, indolent, and unemployed mind, thus to lay hold on a subject to talk about, though 'tis but a sonnet, and, that of the lowest order! How mournfully inactive I am!-'Tis night: good night. "My sister, I thank God, is nigh recovered: she was seriously ill. Do, in your next letter, and that right soon, give me some satisfaction respecting your present situation at Stowey. Is it a farm you have got? and what does your worship know about farming? "Coleridge, I want you to write an epic poem. Nothing short of it can satisfy the vast capacity of true poetic genius. Having one great end to direct all your poetical faculties to, and on which to lay out your hopes, your ambition will show you to what you are equal. By the sacred energies of Milton! by the dainty, sweet, and soothing phantasies of honey-tongued Spenser! I "I need not repeat my wishes to have my little sonnets printed verbatim my last way. In particular, I fear lest you should prefer printing my first sonnet, as you have done more than once, 'did the wand of Merlin wave,' it looks so like MR. Merlin, the inge-adjure you to attempt the epic. Or do somenious successor of the immortal Merlin, now thing more ample than the writing an occaliving in good health and spirits, and flourish- sional brief ode or sonnet; something 'to ing in magical reputation, in Oxford-street; make yourself for ever known,-to make the and, on my life, one half who read it would age to come your own.' But I prate; doubtunderstand it so. Do put 'em forth finally, less you meditate something. When you are as I have, in various letters, settled it; for exalted among the lords of epic fame, I shall first a man's self is to be pleased, and then recall with pleasure, and exultingly, the days his friends,—and, of course, the greater of your humility, when you disdained not to number of his friends, if they differ inter se. put forth, in the same volume with mine, Thus taste may safely be put to the vote. I your 'Religious Musings,' and that other do long to see our names together; not for poem from the 'Joan of Arc,' those promising vanity's sake, and naughty pride of heart first-fruits of high renown to come. You altogether, for not a living soul I know, or have learning, you have fancy, you have am intimate with, will scarce read the book, enthusiasm, you have strength, and ampli--so I shall gain nothing, quoad famam; and tude of wing enow for flights like those I yet there is a little vanity mixes in it, I recommend. In the vast and unexplored cannot help denying.—I am aware of the regions of fairy-land, there is ground enough unpoetical cast of the six last lines of my last unfound and uncultivated; search there, and sonnet, and think myself unwarranted in realise your favourite Susquehannah scheme. smuggling so tame a thing into the book; In all our comparisons of taste, I do not know only the sentiments of those six lines are whether I have ever heard your opinion of thoroughly congenial to me in my state of a poet, very dear to me, the now-out-ofmind, and I wish to accumulate perpetuating fashion Cowley. Favour me with your tokens of my affection to poor Mary,-that judgment of him, and tell me if his prose it has no originality in its cast, nor anything essays, in particular, as well as no incon siderable part of his verse, be not delicious.ence by letter, and personal intimacy, are I prefer the graceful rambling of his essays, even to the courtly elegance and ease of Addison; abstracting from this the latter's exquisite humour. "When the little volume is printed, send me three or four, at all events not more than six copies, and tell me if I put you to any additional expense, by printing with you. I have no thought of the kind, and in that case must reimburse you." very widely different. Do, do write to me, and do some good to my mind, already how much warped and relaxed' by the world! 'Tis the conclusion of another evening. Good night. God have us all in his keeping. "If you are sufficiently at leisure, oblige me with an account of your plan of life at Stowey-your literary occupations and prospects-in short, make me acquainted with every circumstance which, as relating to you, can be interesting to me. Are you yet a Berkleyan? Make me one. I rejoice in In the commencement of this year, Cole-being, speculatively, a necessarian. Would ridge removed from Bristol to a cottage at Nether Stowey, to embody his favourite dream of a cottage life. This change of place probably delayed the printing of the volume; and Coleridge, busy with a thousand speculations, became irregular in replying to the letters with writing which Lamb solaced his dreary hours. The following are the most interesting portions of the only letters which remain of this year. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Jan. 10th, 1797. to God, I were habitually a practical one! "Priestley, whom I sin in almost adoring, speaks of such a choice of company, as tends to keep up that right bent, and firmness, of mind, which a necessary intercourse with the world would otherwise warp and relax.' 'Such fellowship is the true balsam of life; its cement is infinitely more durable than that of the friendships of the world, and it looks for its proper fruit, and complete gratification, to the life beyond the grave.' Is there a possible chance for such an one as I to realise in this world such friendships? Where am I to look for 'em? What testimonials shall I bring of my being worthy of such friendship? Alas! the great and good go together in separate herds, and leave such as I to lag far, far behind in all intellectual, and, far more grievous to say, in all moral accomplishments. Coleridge, I have not one truly elevated character among my acquaintance: not one Christian: not one, but undervalues Christianity-singly what am I to do? Wesley (have you read his life?) was he not an elevated character? Wesley has said, 'Religion is not a solitary thing.' Alas! it necessarily is so with me, or next to solitary. 'Tis true you write to me. But correspond- their scarceness. "And how does little David Hartley ? a man, whose friend has asked him his 'Ecquid in antiquam virtutem?' Does his opinion of a certain young lady-the deluded mighty name work wonders yet upon his wight gives judgment against her in toto— little frame and opening mind? I did not don't like her face, her walk, her manners; distinctly understand you-you don't mean finds fault with her eyebrows; can see no to make an actual ploughman of him? Is wit in her; his friend looks blank, he begins Lloyd with you yet? Are you intimate with to smell a rat-wind veers about-he Southey? What poems is he about to publish? acknowledges her good sense, her judgment --he hath a most prolific brain, and is indeed in dress, a certain simplicity of manners and a most sweet poet. But how can you answer honesty of heart, something too in her all the various mass of interrogation I have manners which gains upon you after a short put to you in the course of the sheet? Write acquaintance, and then her accurate proback just what you like, only write some- nunciation of the French language, and a thing, however brief. I have now nigh pretty uncultivated taste in drawing. The finished my page, and got to the end of reconciled gentleman smiles applause, another evening (Monday evening), and my squeezes him by the hand, and hopes he eyes are heavy and sleepy, and my brain will do him the honour of taking a bit of unsuggestive. I have just heart enough dinner with Mrs. and him,-a plain awake to say good night once more, and God love you, my dear friend; God love us all. Mary bears an affectionate remembrance of you. "CHARLES LAMB." family dinner, some day next week; 'for, A poem of Coleridge, emulous of Southey's "Joan of Arc," which he proposed to call the "Maid of Orleans," on which Lamb had made some critical remarks, produced the humourous recantation with which the follow-which Ll. would say 'are silence to the mind.' ing letter opens. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Feb. 13th, 1797. "Your poem is altogether admirableparts of it are even exquisite-in particular your personal account of the Maid far surpasses any thing of the sort in Southey. I perceived all its excellences, on a first reading, as readily as now you have been removing a supposed film from my eyes. I was only struck with certain faulty disproportion, in the matter and the style, which I still think I perceive, between these lines and the former ones. I had an end in view, I wished to make you reject the poem, only as being discordant with the other, and, in subservience to that end, it was politically done in me to over-pass, and make no mention of merit, which, could you think me capable of overlooking, might reasonably damn for ever in your judgment all pretensions, in me, to be critical. There I will be judged by Lloyd, whether I have not made a very handsome recantation. I was in the case of The deep preluding strains are fitted to initiate the mind, with a pleasing awe, into the sublimest mysteries of theory concerning man's nature, and his noblest destinationthe philosophy of a first cause of subordinate agents in creation, superior to manthe subserviency of Pagan worship and Pagan faith to the introduction of a purer and more perfect religion, which you so elegantly describe as winning, with gradual steps, her difficult way northward from Bethabra. After all this cometh Joan, a publican's daughter, sitting on an ale-house bench, and marking the swingings of the signboard, finding a poor man, his wife and six children, starved to death with cold, and thence roused into a state of mind proper to receive visions, emblematical of equality; which, what the devil Joan had to do with, I don't know, or, indeed, with the French and American revolutions, though that needs no pardon, it is executed so nobly. After all, if you perceive no disproportion, all argument is vain: I do not so much object to parts. Again, when you talk of building your fame on these lines |