by Charles Lamb
4. (p. 434) I passed by the walls of Balclutha: a line from Ossian. The poet James Macpherson (1736–96) published Fragments of Ancient Poetry Collected in the Highlands (1760) and Fingal (1762), an epic poem supposed to have been translated from the original of Ossian, a Gaelic bard.
5. (p. 434) Silenus … Chromius … Mnasilus: in Book 6 of Virgil’s Eclogues, Chromis appears with Mnasilus as a friend of Silenus.
6. (p. 434) pudet: ‘he is ashamed’.
Biographical Index of Correspondents and Contemporaries
Barton, Bernard (1784–1849): Quaker poet. He began working in a shop, became a coal and corn merchant, a private tutor in Liverpool and, finally (in 1809), a clerk in the private bank of Dykes and Alexander in Suffolk. He was a contributor to the London Magazine, through which he met Lamb in 1822.
Burney, Admiral James (1750–1821): sailor. Son of Charles Burney, the music historian, and brother of Fanny Burney, the novelist. He first met Lamb at Rickman’s house in 1803 and was friendly with several of Lamb’s circle of friends, including Hazlitt and Crabb Robinson.
Burney, Martin Charles (1788–1852): barrister, son of Admiral Burney. Thomas Westwood described him as ‘the ugliest of men, hugest of eaters, honestest of friends’. Lamb dedicated the second volume of his works (1818) to Martin Burney.
Chambers, Charles (died c. 1857): surgeon, educated at Christ’s Hospital later than Lamb. His brother John was a colleague of Lamb’s at the East India House.
Cottle, Joseph (1770–1835): author and publisher in Bristol. He issued the early work of Coleridge, Southey and Charles Lloyd, including, in 1798, the Lyrical Ballads.
Dyer, George (1755–1841): poet, scholar and journalist. He was educated at Christ’s Hospital, leaving (before Lamb’s arrival) in 1774 and going to Emmanuel College, Cambridge.
Field, Barron (1786–1846): barrister, whose father was apothecary to Christ’s Hospital and whose brother, Francis John Field, was a fellow clerk of Lamb’s at East India House. He was drama critic for The Times and contributed to the Reflector, Quarterly Review and the London Magazine. He was a close friend of Lamb, Crabb Robinson and Leigh Hunt.
Gillman, Dr James (1792–1839): a surgeon living in Highgate, with whom Coleridge lived from 1816 until his death in 1834. He was one of the co-signatories in the medical report of 1825 that enabled Lamb to retire from the East India Company.
Godwin, William (1756–1836): philosopher, political theorist and novelist. His most well-known work of reform was the Inquiry Concerning Political Justice (1793). Lamb wrote the epilogue to Godwin’s tragedy, Antonio (1800), and a prologue for his tragedy Faulkener (1807). In 1805, Godwin and his wife founded the Juvenile Library that published Charles and Mary Lamb’s works for children (1805–11). Lamb referred to Godwin as The Professor, and is reported to have said that Godwin had read more books that were not worth reading than any man in England.
Hunt, James Henry Leigh (1784–1859): editor, essayist and poet. Educated at Christ’s Hospital later than Lamb, they were close friends by 1812 when Hunt was imprisoned for libelling the Prince Regent, and Lamb was one of his frequent visitors. Hunt edited his brother’s magazine, the Examiner, from 1808, to which Lamb contributed. Hunt’s most interesting writing about Lamb is a review of Lamb’s Works (Examiner, March 1819), a description of Lamb’s library in the essay ‘My Books’ (Literary Examiner, 5/12 July 1823) and various references in his Autobiography (1850).
Kelly, Frances Maria (Fanny) (1790–1882): actress and singer, whose career Lamb had followed and written about admiringly between 1813 and 1825. They met probably in 1816; in July 1819, Lamb proposed to her and was turned down (see note 2 to Letter 37, p. 474).
Lloyd, Charles (junior) (1775–1839): poet, eldest son of Charles Lloyd the Birmingham banker and philanthropist. As a young man he was a close friend of Lamb and Coleridge: in 1796 he lived with Coleridge in Bristol, and in 1797 he visited Lamb. It was Charles Lloyd who first introduced Lamb to Manning in December 1799, when he and his brother Robert were studying with Manning at Cambridge.
Lloyd, Robert (1778–1811): third son of Charles Lloyd, senior, the Quaker banker. After differences with his father in 1799, Lloyd went to London and lived for a time with Lamb, whom he had first met in 1797. In 1809 his father bought him a partnership in a Birmingham bookselling and printing firm. For further details of the Lloyds, see Charles Lamb and the Lloyds by E. V. Lucas (London, 1898).
Manning, Thomas (1772–1840): mathematician and linguist. He first met Lamb at Cambridge in 1799 and became, despite Manning’s elaborate and protracted travels in Europe and China, one of Lamb’s closest friends. The son of a Norfolk rector, Manning was one of the first European scholars of Chinese, and the first Englishman to enter Lhasa in Tibet.
Morgan, John James (died 1820): a lawyer, who became a businessman and eventually a bankrupt. He was educated at Christ’s Hospital and was a friend of Coleridge and Lamb.
Procter, Bryan Waller (1787–1874): poet who wrote under the name of Barry Cornwall. Educated at Harrow, he became a solicitor and barrister and, in 1832, was appointed Metropolitan Commissioner of Lunacy. He met Lamb at Leigh Hunt’s, probably in 1817, and was a frequent contributor to the London Magazine between 1820 and 1825. Procter’s Charles Lamb: A Memoir was published by Edward Moxon & Co. in 1866.
Rickman, John (1771–1840): parliamentary official and statistician. The son of a clergyman, he was educated at Guildford Grammar School and Oxford. A close friend of Southey’s, Rickman was introduced to Lamb by George Dyer in 1800. Rickman supplied Southey with material for articles in the Edinburgh Review and the Annual Register, and wrote an article on the Poor Laws entitled ‘The Means of Improving the People’ (Quarterly Review, April 1818). His most important work was improving national census-taking procedures.
Robinson, Henry Crabb (1775–1867): barrister and diarist. His diary, written between 1811 and 1867, has a large number of references to Lamb.
Southey, Robert (1774–1843): poet and voluminous writer of books and articles, mostly for the Quarterly Review. Educated at Westminster School and Oxford, Southey was an early friend of Coleridge’s, with whom he planned the utopian scheme of Pantisocracy (see note 7 to Letter 7, p. 466), and was also his brother-in-law. He first met Lamb in 1795 and they remained friends throughout their lives. Southey was made Poet Laureate in 1813.
Talfourd, Sir Thomas Noon (1795–1854): judge and dramatist. Talfourd met Lamb in 1815, and he was executor and trustee in both of Lamb’s wills. He was also Lamb’s first biographer, publishing in 1837 The Letters of Charles Lamb, with a Sketch of his Life. Dickens dedicated The Pickwick Papers to him.
Appendix One: The Party at Haydon’s
In December Wordsworth was in town, and as Keats wished to know him I made up a party to dinner of Charles Lamb, Wordsworth, Keats and Monkhouse, his friend, and a very pleasant party we had.
I wrote to Lamb, and told him the address was ‘22 Lisson Grove, North, at Rossi’s, half way up, right hand corner.’ I received his characteristic reply.
‘My dear Haydon,
‘I will come with pleasure to 22. Lisson Grove, North, at Rossi’s, half way up, right hand side, if I can find it.
‘Yours,
‘C. LAMB.
‘20. Russel Court,
Covent Garden East,
half way up, next the corner,
left hand side.’
On December 28th the immortal dinner came off in my painting-room, with Jerusalem towering up behind us as a background. Wordsworth was a fine cue, and we had a glorious set-to, – on Homer, Shakespeare, Milton and Virgil. Lamb got exceedingly merry and exquisitely witty; and his fun in the midst of Wordsworth’s solemn intonations of oratory was like the sarcasm and wit of the fool in the intervals of Lear’s passion. He made a speech and voted me absent, and made them drink my health. ‘Now,’ said Lamb, ‘you old lake poet, you rascally poet, why do you call Voltaire dull?’ We all defended Wordsworth, and affirmed there was a state
of mind when Voltaire would be dull. ‘Well,’ said Lamb, ‘here’s Voltaire – the Messiah of the French nation, and a very proper one too.’
He then, in a strain of humour beyond description, abused me for putting Newton’s head into my picture, – ‘a fellow,’ said he, ‘who believed nothing unless it was as clear as the three sides of a triangle.’ And then he and Keats agreed he had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow by reducing it to the prismatic colours. It was impossible to resist him, and we all drank ‘Newton’s health, and confusion to mathematics’. It was delightful to see the good-humour of Wordsworth in giving in to all our frolics without affectation and laughing as heartily as the best of us.
By this time other friends joined, amongst them poor Ritchie who was going to penetrate by Fezzan to Timbuctoo. I introduced him to all as ‘a gentleman going to Africa’. Lamb seemed to take no notice; but all of a sudden he roared out, ‘Which is the gentleman we are going to lose?’ We then drank the victim’s health, in which Ritchie joined.
In the morning of this delightful day, a gentleman, a perfect stranger, had called on me. He said he knew my friends, had an enthusiasm for Wordsworth and begged I would procure him the happiness of an introduction. He told me he was a comptroller of stamps, and often had correspondence with the poet. I thought it a liberty; but still, as he seemed a gentleman, I told him he might come.
When we retired to tea we found the comptroller. In introducing him to Wordsworth I forgot to say who he was. After a little time the comptroller looked down, looked up and said to Wordsworth, ‘Don’t you think, sir, Milton was a great genius?’ Keats looked at me, Wordsworth looked at the comptroller. Lamb who was dozing by the fire turned round and said, ‘Pray, sir, did you say Milton was a great genius?’ ‘No, sir; I asked Mr Wordsworth if he were not.’ ‘Oh,’ said Lamb, ‘then you are a silly fellow.’ ‘Charles! my dear Charles!’ said Wordsworth; but Lamb, perfectly innocent of the confusion he had created, was off again by the fire.
After an awful pause the comptroller said, ‘Don’t you think Newton a great genius?’ I could not stand it any longer. Keats put his head into my books. Ritchie squeezed in a laugh. Wordsworth seemed asking himself, ‘Who is this?’ Lamb got up, and taking a candle, said, ‘Sir, will you allow me to look at your phrenological development?’ He then turned his back on the poor man, and at every question of the comptroller he chaunted –
Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John
Went to bed with his breeches on.
The man in office, finding Wordsworth did not know who he was, said in a spasmodic and half-chuckling anticipation of assured victory, ‘I have had the honour of some correspondence with you, Mr Wordsworth.’ ‘With me, sir?’ said Wordsworth, ‘not that I remember.’ ‘Don’t you, sir? I am a comptroller of stamps.’ There was a dead silence; – the comptroller evidently thinking that was enough. While we were waiting for Wordsworth’s reply, Lamb sung out
Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle.
‘My dear Charles!’ said Wordsworth, –
Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John,
chaunted Lamb, and then rising, exclaimed, ‘Do let me have another look at that gentleman’s organs.’ Keats and I hurried Lamb into the painting-room, shut the door and gave way to inextinguishable laughter. Monkhouse followed and tried to get Lamb away. We went back but the comptroller was irreconcilable. We soothed and smiled and asked him to supper. He stayed though his dignity was sorely affected. However, being a good-natured man, we parted all in good-humour, and no ill effects followed.
All the while, until Monkhouse succeeded, we could hear Lamb struggling in the painting-room and calling at intervals, ‘Who is that fellow? Allow me to see his organs once more.’
It was indeed an immortal evening. Wordsworth’s fine intonation as he quoted Milton and Virgil, Keats’ eager inspired look, Lamb’s quaint sparkle of lambent humour, so speeded the stream of conversation, that in my life I never passed a more delightful time. All our fun was within bounds. Not a word passed that an apostle might not have listened to. It was a night worthy of the Elizabethan age, and my solemn Jerusalem flashing up by the flame of the fire, with Christ hanging over us like a vision, all made up a picture which will long glow upon –
that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude.
Keats made Ritchie promise he would carry his Endymion to the great desert of Sahara and fling it in the midst.
Poor Ritchie went to Africa, and died, as Lamb foresaw, in 1819. Keats died in 1821, at Rome. C. Lamb is gone, joking to the last. Monkhouse is dead, and Wordsworth and I are the only two now living (1841) of that glorious party.
[From the Autobiography of Benjamin Robert Haydon]
Appendix Two: A Selection of Lamb’s Notes From Specimens of the English Dramatic Poets (1808)
NOTE ON THE CASE IS ALTERED, A COMEDY, BY BEN JOHNSON.
The passion for wealth has worn out much of its grossness by tract of time. Our ancestors certainly conceived of money as able to confer a distinct gratification in itself, not alone considered simply as a symbol of wealth. The oldest poets, when they introduce a miser, constantly make him address his gold as his mistress; as something to be seen, felt, and hugged; as capable of satisfying two of the senses at least. The substitution of a thin unsatisfying medium for the good old tangible gold, has made avarice quite a Platonic affection in comparison with the seeing, touching, and handling pleasures of the old Chrysophilites. A bank-note can no more satisfy the touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than Creusa could return her husband’s embrace in the shades. See the Cave of Mammon in Spenser; Barabas’s contemplation of his wealth in the Jew of Malta; Luke’s raptures in the City Madam, &c. Above all, hear Guzman, in that excellent old Spanish novel, The Rogue, expatiate on the ‘ruddy cheeks of your golden Ruddocks, your Spanish Pistolets, your plump and full-faced Portuguese, and your clear-skinned pieces of eight of Castile,’ which he and his fellows the beggars kept secret to themselves, and did ‘privately enjoy in a plentiful manner.’ ‘For to have them, for to pay them away, is not to enjoy them; to enjoy them is to have them lying by us, having no other need of them than to use them for the clearing of the eye-sight, and the comforting of our senses. These we did carry about with us, sewing them in some patches of our doublets near unto the heart, and as close to the skin as we could handsomely quilt them in, holding them to be restorative.’
NOTE ON A NEW WONDER: A WOMAN NEVER VEXT, A COMEDY BY ROWLEY.
The old play-writers are distinguished by an honest boldness of exhibition; they show every thing without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune be the thing to be personified, they fairly bring us to the prison-grate and the alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is always a gentleman; he may be known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, forbids the dramatizing of distress at all. It is never shown in its essential properties;1 it appears but as the adjunct to some virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from the approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from the real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows, moral duties: whereas, if the truth of things were fairly represented, the relative duties might be safely trusted to themselves, and moral philosophy lose the name of a science.
NOTE ON A FAIR QUARREL, A COMEDY, BY MIDDLETON AND ROWLEY.
The insipid levelling morality to which the modern stage is tied down would not admit of such admirable passions as these scenes are filled with. A puritanical obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping among us, instead of the vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and blood, with which the old dramatists present us. Those noble and liberal casuists could discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of man, a beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the iterately inculcated duties of forgiveness and atonement. With us all is hypocritical meekness. A reconciliation
scene (let the occasion be never so absurd or unnatural) is always sure of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre to be complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the amiable characters in the play, and find a wonderful similarity of disposition between them. We have a common stock of dramatic morality out of which a writer may be supplied without the trouble of copying it from originals within his own breast. To know the boundaries of honour, to be judiciously valiant, to have a temperance which shall beget a smoothness in the angry swellings of youth, to esteem life as nothing when the sacred reputation of a parent is to be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious cowardice when that ark of an honest confidence is found to be frail and tottering, to feel the true blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which the imaginary strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen an edge upon but lately; to do, or to imagine this done in a feigned story, asks something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater delicacy of perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes to the writing of two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws of honour as opposed to the laws of the land, or a common-place against duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer nowadays in far better stead than Captain Ager and his concientious honour; and he would be considered as a far better teacher of morality than old Rowley or Middleton if they were living.
NOTE ON THE RICH JEW OF MALTA, A TRAGEDY, BY MARLOWE.
Marlow’s Jew does not approach so near to Shakspeare’s, as his Edward II. does to Richard II. Shylock in the midst of his savage purpose is a man. His motives, feelings, resentments, have something human in them. ‘If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’ Barbaras is a mere monster brought in with a large painted nose to please the rabble. He kills in sport, poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He is just such an exhibition as a century or two earlier might have been played before the Londoners, by the Royal Command, when a general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews had been previously resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see a superstition wearing out. The idea of a Jew (which our pious ancestors contemplated with such horror) has nothing in it now revolting. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its nails, and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, write plays to flatter it: it is visited by princes, affects a taste, patronizes the arts, and is the only liberal and gentlemanlike thing in Christendom.