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bid farewell to my "sweet enemy," Tobacco, I shall perhaps set nobly to work. Hang work!

I wish that all the year were holiday; I am sure that indolence—indefeasible indolence—is the true state of man, and business the invention of the old Teazer, whose interference doomed Adam to an apron and set him a hoeing. Pen and ink, and clerks and desks, were the refinements of this old torturer some thousand years after, under pretence of "Commerce allying distant shores, promoting and diffusing knowledge, good," &c. &c.

I wish you may think this a handsome farewell to my "Friendly Traitress." Tobacco has been my evening comfort and my morning curse for these five years; and you know how difficult it is from refraining to pick one's lips even, when it has become a habit. This poem is the only one which I have finished since so long as when I wrote "Hester Savory." I have had it in my head to do it these two years, but tobacco stood in its own light when it gave me headaches that prevented my singing its praises. Now you have got it, you have got all my store, for I have absolutely not another line. No more has Mary. We have nobody about us that cares for poetry; and who will rear grapes when he shall be the sole eater? Perhaps if you encourage us to show you what we may write, we may do something now and then before we absolutely forget the quantity of an English line for want of practice. The Tobacco," being a little in the way of Withers (whom Southey so much likes), perhaps you will somehow convey it to him with my kind remembrances. Then, every body will have seen it that I wish to see it, I having sent it to Malta.

I remain, dear W. and D., yours truly,

C. LAMB.

CXXIX.

:

TO WILLIAM HAZLITT

[Nov. 10, 1805.]

Dear Hazlitt, I was very glad to hear from you, and that your journey was so picturesque. We miss you, as we foretold we should. One or two things have happened, which are beneath the dignity of epistolary communication, but which, seated about our fireside at night, (the winter hands of pork have begun,) gesture and emphasis might have talked into some importance. Something about Rickman's wife; for instance, how tall she is, and that she visits pranked up like a Queen of the May, with green streamers a good-natured woman though, which is as much as you can expect from a friend's wife, whom you got acquainted with a bachelor. Some things too about Monkey, which can't so well be written how it set up for a fine lady, and thought it had got lovers, and was obliged to be convinced of its age from the parish register, where it was proved to be only twelve; and an edict issued, that it should not give itself airs yet these four years; and how it got leave to be called Miss, by grace: these, and such like hows, were in my head to tell you; but who can write? Also how Manning is come to town in spectacles, and studies physic; is melancholy, and seems to have something in his head, which he don't impart. Then, how I am going to leave off smoking. Ola! your Leonardos of Oxford made my mouth water. I was hurried through the gallery, and they escaped me. What do I say? I was a Goth then, and should not have noticed them. I had not settled my notions of beauty I have now for ever!-the small head, the long eye,-that sort of peering curve, -the wicked Italian mischief; the stick-at-nothing, Herodias's daughter kind of grace. You understand me? But you disappoint me in passing over in absolute silence the Blenheim Leonardo. Didn't you

see it? Excuse a lover's curiosity. I have seen no pictures of note since, except Mr Dawe's gallery. It is curious to see how differently two great men treat the same subject, yet both excellent in their way. For instance, Milton and Mr Dawe. Mr D. has chosen to illustrate the story of Samson exactly in the point of view in which Milton has been most happy the interview between the Jewish hero, blind and captive, and Dalilah. Milton has imagined his locks grown again, strong as horse-hair, or porcupine's bristles; doubtless shaggy and black, as being hairs "which, of a nation armed, contained the strength." I don't remember he says black; but could Milton imagine them to be yellow? Do you? Mr Dawe, with striking originality of conception, has crowned him with a thin yellow wig, in colour precisely like Dyson's; in curl and quantity, resembling Mrs Professor's; his limbs rather stout,—about such a man as my brother or Rickman, but no Atlas nor Hercules, nor yet so long as Dubois, the clown of Sadler's Wells. This was judicious, taking the spirit of the story rather than the fact; for doubtless God could communicate national salvation to the trust of flax and tow as well as hemp and cordage, and could draw down a temple with a golden tress as soon as with all the cables of the British navy.

Wasn't you sorry for Lord Nelson? I have followed him in fancy ever since I saw him walking in Pall Mall, (I was prejudiced against him before,) looking just as a hero should look; and I have been very much cut about it indeed. He was the only pretence of a great man we had. Nobody is left of any name at all. His secretary died by his side. I imagined him a Mr Scott, to be the man you met at Hume's; but I learnt from Mrs Hume that it is not the same. I met Mrs H. one day, and agreed to go on the Sunday to tea, but the rain prevented us, and the distance. I have been to apologize, and we

are to dine there the first fine Sunday. Strange perverseness! I never went while you stayed here; and now I go to find you! What other news is there, Mary? What puns have I made in the last fortnight? You never remember them. You have no relish for the comic. "Oh! tell Hazlitt not to forget to send the American Farmer. I daresay it is not so good as he fancies; but a book's a book." I have not heard from Wordsworth or from Malta since. Charles Kemble, it seems, enters into possession to-morrow. We sup at 109, Russell Street, this evening. I wish your brother would not drink. "Tis a blemish in the greatest characters. You send me a modern quotation poetical. How do you like this in an old play? Vittoria Corombona, a spunky Italian lady, a Leonardo one, nick-named the White Devil, being on her trial for murder, &c.--and questioned about seducing a duke from his wife and the state, makes answer :

"Condemn you me for that the Duke did love me?
So may you blame some fair and crystal river,
For that some melancholic distracted man

Hath drown'd himself in it."

N.B. I shall expect a line from you, if but a bare line, whenever you write to Russell Street, and a letter often when you do not. I pay no postage; but I will have consideration for you until Parliament time and franks. Luck to Ned Search, and the new art of colouring. Monkey sends her love; and Mary especially.

Yours truly,

CXXX.

TO THOMAS MANNING

C. LAMB.

[Nov. 15, 1805.]

Dear Manning,-Certainly you could not have called at all hours from two till ten, for we have been only out of an evening Monday and Tuesday in this

week. But if you think you have, your thought shall go for the deed. We did pray for you on Wednesday night. Oysters unusually luscious; pearls of extraordinary magnitude found in them. I have made bracelets of them; given them in clusters to ladies. Last night we went out in despite, because you were not come at your hour.

This night we shall be at home; so shall we certainly, both, on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Take your choice, mind I don't say of one but choose which evening you will not come, and come the other four. Doors open at five o'clock. Shells forced about nine. Every gentleman smokes or not as he pleases. C. L.

CXXXI.

MISS LAMB TO MRS CLARKSON

Dec. 25, 1805.

My dear Mrs Clarkson, I feel myself greatly obliged to you for your kind letter. The favorable account you give of your own health has afforded me the sincerest pleasure.

We wished ourselves with you at Grasmere. I rejoice to find both by yours, and Miss Wordsworth's last letter, that they have so wonderfully borne up under their sad affliction. We have heard no more of Coleridge. I will certainly write the instant I hear of him. I have not the most distant idea where it is probable he will land.

This is Christmas-day; it is a fine, cheerful morning, and I feel a kind of satisfaction that a sad, and dreary year, as this has been to me, and many of my best friends, is drawing to an end. In the usual compliments of this time of the year to you, and Mr Clarkson, I include a wish and hope, that we shall meet in the course of the ensuing year, with you, together with our kind Grasmere friends, and Cole

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