C Charles Lamb's One Romance BY JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD HARLES LAMB, the bosom friend of all who read his works, whose life (and devotion to his afflicted sister Mary) can never be divorced from his books, nor his books from his life, is one of the pathetic figures in English literature. This brother and sister are more like some of the most delicate creations of Charles Dickens or Thackeray than real workaday people. They belong to London and London life-limited and central London, -and as they had a passion for moving from place to place which was more than Miltonic, and partly due, no doubt, to their mental affliction, they lend an interest to streets, places, and districts in London which is often sadly needed. They give a memory to Pentonvillethe district of Grimaldi; they glorify the old madhouse in the High Street, Hoxton, which still stands as it stood in 1800, with the large brass plate on the door of the chief dwelling and entrance, inscribed with the single word "Miles"; they sanctify the "Cat and Mutton Fields," over which they walked, hand in hand, from Hackney to Hoxton, when they felt the mental curse was coming on them; they give a more than topographical interest to the little humble cottage on the New River Bank at Colebrooke Row, Islington, where the street door opened into the parlor, without an intervening "hall" or passage, and where they were near Colley Cibber's last dwelling place before he died; they brightened up even the historic Temple, where they lived in Mitre Court; they relieved the gloom of the Patent Office and the lawyers' dens in Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane; they gave a tragic story to 7 Little Queen Street, Holborn, where poor Mary Lamb became an irresponsible matricide; and finally they found themselves in the congenial neighborhood of Covent Garden and Drury Lane, amongst their friends the "old actors," including the Kembles, at No. 20 Great Russell Street. Charles Lamb and his sister occupied the first floor. There were no "flats" in 1817, and those who disliked the responsibility of a house had to be satisfied with "upper parts over shops. The next door was held to be the site of the famous "Coffee House" known as "Wills's," and long known to us later people as the "Boiled Beef Red House," at the corner of Bow Street. I look upon Covent Garden Market as the right spot in all London for Charles Lamb to have lived in, and regret that he ever went to Enfield, or to Edmonton, where he died in 1834. I may insert a paragraph about his local surroundings at this time which has a little interest attached to it in connection with Thackeray. Thackeray was the first editor of the Cornhill Magazine, and asked me to "write up" to certain woodcuts of Covent Garden Market by the well-known artist W. C. Bennett. The literary padding was wanted in a hurry like newspaper work. I spent the night and morning in the early market, and delivered the " copy" at midday. When Mr. John Timbs, F.S.A., compiled his History of Club and Club Life, he selected and published part of my article (which was not signed) from the Cornhill Magazine, in this form: "Mr. Thackeray was a hearty lover of London, and has left us many evidences of his sincerity. He greatly favored Covent Garden, of which he has painted this clever picture, sketched from the Garden,' where are annually paid for fruits and vegetables some three millions sterling." Then comes the quotation: "The two great national theatres on one side, a churchyard full of mouldy but undying celebrities on the other; a fringe of houses studded in every part with anecdote and history; an arcade, It is impossible. I should feel injured or aggrieved by your belling me at once, that the proposal does not suit you. It is impossible that I should ever think of molesting you with idle importunity and hersecution after your mind once Jirmly spoken but happier, for happier, could I have leave a time might to hope we have our come, whon. freinds our interests yours; our book- knowlege, if in that inconsiderable particular little advantage; might impart you would every day have any something to you, which it in your power ten thousand fold to repay by the added chear Julness & joy which you could not fail to bring as Jamily should have the honor & happiness a dowry into whatever If receiving you, the most welcome accession In haste, but with that could be made to it. ассерий entire respect & deepest affection, I subscribe myself C. Lamb CHARLES LAMB'S PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE Facsimile of a portion of the letter now in the collection of John Hollingshead, Esq., London often more gloomy and deserted than a cathedral aisle; a rich cluster of brown old taverns one of them filled with the counterfeit presentments of many actors long since silent, who scowl or smile once more from the canvas upon the grandsons of their dead admirers; a something in the air which breathes of old books, old pictures, old painters, and old authors; a place, beyond all other places, one would choose in which to hear the chimes at midnight; a 'Crystal Palace '-the representative of the presentwhich peeps in timidly from a corner order of intelligence. Miss Kelly was a ladylike and a fairly good-looking young woman, but she was not what the world or the stage calls a beauty. She had character, honesty, talent, a real and cultivated love of her art, and, amongst the whole Kemble company at Drury Lane, she was the only woman, Lord Byron said, worth talking to. She overcame his shyness regarding his lameness, and made him walk across the historic Greenroom of Drury Lane for the first time. upon many things of the past; a withered at least, not gifted with his particular bank, that has been sucked dry by a felonious clerk; a squat building with a hundred columns and chapel - looking fronts, which always stands knee-deep in baskets, flowers, and scattered vegetables; a common centre into which Nature showers her choicest gifts, and where the kindly fruits of the earth often nearly choke the narrow thoroughfares; a population that never seems to sleep, and does all in its power to prevent others sleeping; a place where the very latest suppers and the earliest breakfasts jostle each other on the footways; surely a real old-world Arcadia for Charles Lamb and his sister." Here they could stand at their win dow and see their beloved Drury Lane Theatre, then without its ultra-simple façade, and could send over to their dear friend, Miss Frances Maria Kelly, the versatile and sympathetic actress and singer, who lived in the " upper part" of No. 8 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, to borrow her Drury Lane "bones" for admission-every leading actor and actress having one or more of these privileged tickets. Charles Lamb, according to the testimony of the many distinguished men and women who knew and loved him, had the most beautiful and sympathetic nature, the highest sense of honor, and the greatest determination to obey the dictates of duty-his chief duty, self-imposed, being to devote his life and means to the care and protection of his afflicted sister. Having the instincts of human nature, it is no discredit to him that occa sionally he was conscious of the tie, if only for a moment, but he shook off the feeling in the spirit of an inspired martyr. His sister's intermittent attacks of dementia were never wanted to recall him to his task. He was not insensible to female attractions of a quiet kind. With all his love for the old drama and the art of acting, he was not attracted by the ladies of the stage with whom, through the Kembles, he was occasionally brought in contact, until he met with Miss Fanny Kelly, who was probably introduced to him by the Kenneys-the dramatist and his family. Before he met Miss Kelly, his female friends may have been, like the well-favored Quakeress at Pentonville, agreeable, but not over-intelligent With a woman like this, sympathetic and ready to learn-even eager to learn, -who could understand and appreciate his unpedantic learning and rare humor, the friend and companion of his afflicted sister, it is not astonishing that Charles Lamb dreamt of a household in which the three could live together, joined by a link of congenial literary taste, and in which, when the dreaded time came for him to take his sister's hand and walk weeping to the asylum, he might come home to his modest lodging and find a cherished companion. Although this pleasant dream was never to be realized, he made Miss Kelly a written offer of marriage. It was the first and only letter of the kind he ever wrote, and is a model of gentle dignity and right feeling. It fully proves that all the friendly estimates of his character were based upon sound observation and knowledge: DEAR MISS KELLY, 20 July 1819 We had the pleasure, pain I might better call it, of seeing you last night in the new Play. It was a most consummate piece of Acting, but what a task for you to undergo! at a time when your heart is sore from real sorrow! it has given rise to a train of thinking, which I cannot suppress. Would to God you were released from this way of life; that you could bring your mind to consent to take your lot with us, and throw off for ever the whole burden I neither expect or of your Profession. wish you to take notice of this which I & hurried state. But to think of it at your am writing, in your present over occupied leisure. I have quite income enough, if that were all, to justify for me making such a proposal, with what I may call even a handsome provision for my survivor. What you possess of your own would nat urally be appropriated to those, for whose sakes chiefly you have made so many hard sacrifices. I am not so foolish as not to know that I am a most unworthy match for such a one as you, but you have for years been a principal object in my mind. In many a sweet assumed character I have learned to love you, but simply as F. M. Kelly I love you better than them all. Can you quit these shadows of existence, & come & be a reality to us? can you leave off harassing yourself to please a thankless multitude, who know nothing of you, & begin at last to live to yourself & your friends? As plainly & frankly as I have seen you give or refuse assent in some feigned scene, so frankly do me the justice to answer me. It is impossible I should feel injured or aggrieved by your telling me at once, that the proposal does not suit you. It is impossible that I should ever think of molesting you with idle importunity and persecution after your mind once firmly spokenbut happier, far happier, could I have leave to hope a time might come, when our friends might be your friends; our interests yours; our book-knowledge, if in that inconsiderable particular we have any little advantage, might impart something to you, which you would every day have it in your power ten thousand fold to repay by the added cheerfulness and joy which you could not fail to bring as a dowry into whatever family should have the honor and happiness of receiving you, the most welcome accession that Icould be made to it. prospect can well induce me to withdraw it but while I thus frankly & decidedly decline your proposal, believe me, I am not insensible to the high honour which the preference of such a mind as yours confers upon me let me, however, hope that all thought upon this subject will end with this letter, & that you will henceforth encourage no other sentiment towards me than esteem in my private character and a continuance of that approbation of my humble talents which you have already expressed so much & so often to my advantage and gratification Believe me I feel proud to acknowledge myself Your obliged friend Your injunctions shall be obeyed to a tittle. I feel myself in a lackadaisacal nohow-ish kind of a humour. I believe it is the rain, or something. I had thought to have written seriously, but I fancy I succeed best in epistles of mere fun; puns & that nonsense. You will be good friends with us, will you not? let what has past "break no bones" between us. You will not refuse us them next time we send for them? Yours very truly, C L. Do you observe the delicacy of not signing my full name? N. B. Do not paste that In haste, but with entire respect & deepest last letter of mine into your Book. affection, I subscribe myself A The Rose of Spring I BY MAY HARRIS ND it's strange to think," said the girl, looking across the fields to the blue line of hills in the distance, that well as we know each other, your mother doesn't know me at all. When she does-" 66 St. John Venning, lying full length on the short April grass at her feet, put out his hand and touched hers adoringly. "When she does-!" he repeated, with triumphant assurance. "Oh, she'll never love me," she protested, sadly. "I know I'm not the sort of girl she would want you to marry." "What makes you say such a thing, Molly?"-half angrily. "When she knows you, she'll adore you." "No, she won't," Molly Grange said, shaking her head. "Mothers never do." The generality passed Venning by, but he looked at her anxiously. "You told me you had a letter from her this morning. Dearest, did she-" "No, no!" Molly answered his unfinished question. "It's just an idea of mine-a cobweb I'm responsible for." Venning gave a sigh of relief. He had just a little dreaded what his mother would feel. They had been unusually near to each other in a community of affection and temperament that had suffered no diminution, even in the difficult years that join youth to early manhood; and it was not easy for him to passively imagine any breach in the future. But Molly!-she must love Molly, or- All his love for Molly, all his youth,-which, though her senior by two years, was, as the youth of a man often is, more youthful than hers,-was in his voice. "If she didn't love you," he said, with a laugh that scorned the profanity of the idea, "she wouldn't seem the same mother I've always cared for so." He said "cared." Love seemed a word whose infinite meaning narrowed to one objective point-Molly. "Tell me of her, St. John." "What must I tell?" he asked, lazily, his eyes on her face. "It seems I can't tell you anything except-I love you!" Her eyes fell shyly. "She writes so beautifully-her books, I mean. She must be very beautiful herself." "She is. Isn't it wonderful? I shall have the most beautiful woman in the world for my wife, and the next most beautiful is my mother." "Don't put me first," Molly said, with a sudden touch of pain in her voice. "She has been that so long! I feel as if I were taking you away from her." "But you are not! Instead, I am going to give her you!" "She's tall like you?" "Yes, she's tall too, but I'm not like her. I suppose I'm like my father. He died when I was a child." "And all these years she's been alonewith you." "Yes, always with me-until my college days. She took me everywhere with her-made me into a sort of comrade, you know. We lived in Europe three years; she wrote one of her books therein Florence. I rather hated Florence. Then we lived in England; the mother had friends and relatives there. I had a tutor. I liked it better there, but I suppose I'm American, after all," laughing. "So we came back, and I went into college. Then "-with playful emphasis -"one vacation I came to Madderley to visit Willy Laurence, and I met you! And the next year I came back again, and I-but that is now!” He was going away for a few days to Florida to meet his mother, who was to join some friends in St. Augustine for a yachting trip, and in anticipation of this separation they had been for a walk, drawing out to the fullest the bitter sweetness of parting-even for a little while. The girl's lap was filled with |