ITHAMORE (A comical dog) "Faith, master, and I have spent my time And in the night time secretly would I steal To travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats. I strew'd powder on the marble stones, BARABBAS "Why, this is something." There is a mixture of the ludicrous and the terrible in these lines, brimful of genius and antique invention, that at first reminded me of your old description of cruelty in hell, which was in the true Hogarthian style. I need not tell you that Marlow was author of that pretty madrigal, "Come live with me and be my Love," and of the tragedy of Edward II., in which are certain lines unequalled in our English tongue. Honest Walton mentions the said madrigal under the denomination of "certain smooth verses made long since by Kit Marlow." I am glad you have put me on the scent after old Quarles. If I do not put up those eclogues, and that shortly, say I am no true-nosed hound. I have had a letter from Lloyd; the young metaphysician of Caius is well, and is busy recanting the new heresy, metaphysics, for the old dogma, Greek. My sister, I thank you, is quite well. She had a slight attack the other day, which frightened me a good deal, but it went of unaccountably. Love and respects to Edith. Yours sincerely, C. LAMB. Nov. 3. 1798. I have read your Eclogue repeatedly, and cannot call it bald, or without interest; the cast of it and the design are completely original, and may set people upon thinking. It is as poetical as the subject requires, which asks no poetry; but it is defective in pathos. The woman's own story is the tamest part of it; I should like you to remould that it too much resembles the young maid's history; both had been in service. Even the omission would not injure the poem: after the words "growing wants," you might, not unconnectedly, introduce "look at that little chub" down to "welcome one." And, decidedly, I would have you end it somehow thus, "Give them at least this evening good meal. [Gives her money. Now, fare thee well; hereafter you have taught me To give sad meaning to the village bells," &c. which would leave a stronger impression (as well as more pleasingly recall the beginning of the Eclogue) than the present commonplace reference to a better world, which the woman "must have heard at church." I should like you too a good deal to enlarge the most striking part, as it might have been, of the poem"Is it idleness?" &c.: that affords a good field for dwelling on sickness, and inabilities, and old age. And you might also a good deal enrich the piece with a picture of a country wedding. The woman might very well, in a transient fit of oblivion, dwell upon the ceremony and circumstances of her own nuptials six years ago, the snugness of the bridegroom, the feastings, the cheap merriment, the welcomings, and the secret envyings of the maidens; then dropping all this, recur to her present lot. I do not know that I can suggest any thing else, or that I have suggested any thing new or material. I do not much prefer this Eclogue to the last. Both are inferior to the former. "And when he came to shake me by the hand, And spake as kindly to me as he used, I hardly knew his voice-" is the only passage that affected me. When servants speak their language ought to be plain, and not much raised above the common else I should find fault with the bathos of this passage, "And when I heard the bell strike out, I thought (what?) that I had never heard it toll I like the destruction of the martens' old nests hugely, having just such a circumstance in my memory. I shall be very glad to see your remaining Ecologue, if not too much trouble, as you give me reason to expect it will be the second best. I shall be very glad to see some more poetry, though, I fear, your trouble in transcribing will be greater than the service my remarks may do them. Yours affectionately, C. LAMB. I cut my letter short because I am called off to business. XXXVIII. TO THE SAME Nov 8th, 1798. I perfectly accord with your opinion of old Wither; Quarles is a wittier writer, but Wither lays more hold of the heart. Quarles thinks of his audience when he lectures; Wither soliloquizes in company from a full heart. What wretched stuff are the "Divine Fancies" of Quarles! Religion appears to him no longer valuable than it furnishes matters for quibbles and riddles ; he turns God's grace into wantonness. Wither is like an old friend, whose warm-heartedness and estimable qualities make us wish he possessed more genius, but at the same time make us willing to dispense with that want. I always love Wither, and sometimes admire Quarles. Still that portrait poem is a fine one; and the extract from "Shepherds' Hunting" places him in a starry height far above Quarles. If you wrote that review in the Critical Review, I am sorry you are so sparing of praise to the Ancient Marinere. So far from calling it as you do, with some wit, but more severity, a "Dutch Attempt," &c., I call it a right English attempt, and a successful one, to dethrone German sublimity. You have selected a passage fertile in unmeaning miracles, but have passed by fifty passages as miraculous as the miracles they celebrate. I never so deeply felt the pathetic as in that part, "A spring of love gush'd from my heart, It stung me into high pleasure through sufferings. Lloyd does not like it; his head is too metaphysical, and your taste too correct; at least I must allege something against you both, to excuse my own dotage "So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seem'd there to be!"-&c., &c. But you allow some elaborate beauties: you should have extracted 'em. The Ancient Marinere plays more tricks with the mind than that last poem, which is yet one of the finest written. But I am getting too dogmatical; and before I degenerate into abuse, I will conclude with assuring you that I am Sincerely yours, C. LAMB. I am going to meet Lloyd at Ware on Saturday, to return on Sunday. Have you any commands or commendations to the metaphysician? I shall be very happy if you will dine or spend any time with me in your way through the great ugly city; but I know you have other ties upon you in these parts. Love and respects to Edith, and friendly remembrances to Cottle. XXXIX. TO ROBERT LLOYD [November 17, 1798.] Now 'tis Robert's turn. My dear Robert,-one passage in your Letter a little displeas'd me. The rest was nothing but kindness, which Robert's letters are ever brimful of. You say that "this world to you seems drain'd of all its sweets!"-At first I had hoped you only meant to insinuate the high price of Sugar! but I am afraid you meant more. O Robert, I don't know what you call sweet. Honey and the honey comb, roses and violets, are yet in the earth. The sun and moon yet reign in Heaven, and the lesser lights keep up their pretty twinklings. Meats and drinks, sweet sights and sweet smells, a country walk, spring and autumn, follies and repentance, quarrels and reconcilements, have all a sweetness by turns. So good humour and good nature, friends at home that love you, and friends abroad that miss you-you possess all these things, and more innumerable: and these are all sweet things. You may extract honey from every thing; do not go a gathering after gall. The Bees are wiser in their generation than the race of sonnet writers and complainers: Bowles's and Charlotte Smiths, and all that tribe, who can see no joys, but what are past, and fill peoples' heads with notions of the unsatisfying nature of Earthly comforts. I assure you I find this world a very pretty place. My kind love to all your Sisters and to Thomas-he never writes to me and tell Susanna I forgive her. C. LAMB. |