He I have within this last week received a pleasure of the highest possible terrestrial nature, the arrival of some Portuguese and Spanish books. No monk ever contemplated with more devotion a chest of relics piping hot, than I did the happy deal box that contained the long expected treasures. But let us leave these books alcne, and talk of my manufactory. Did you ever see Ellis's Specimens of the Early English Poets'? It is a very useful collection, though not to my judgment made with due knowledge or taste,—but still a good book, and which has sold wondrously well, George Ellis being a parliament man, and of fashionable fame. Heber helped him in the business well. ends with the reign of Charles II. Now am I going to begin where he ends, and give specimens of all the poets and rhymesters from that time to the present, exclusive of the living jockeys; whereby I expect to get some money; for, be it known to you in due confidence, that though this will really be a pleasant and useful book, I have undertaken it purely for the lucre of gain. For if this should sell as a sequel and companion to Ellis's book, for which I design it, and shall advertise it, the profits will be considerable. Some little notice of each author is to be prefixed to the pieces, sometimes being only a list of his works, sometimes a brief biography, if he be at all an odd fish, and sometimes such odd things as may flow from the quaintness of my heart. This costs me a journey to London, as at least half these gentlemen are not included in the common collections of the poets, and must be resurrectionised at Stationers' Hall, where they have long since been confined to the spiders. A journey will stir my stumps, and perhaps do me good; yet I do not like it-it disturbs me, and puts me out of my way. However, I shall be very glad to see Rickman, whom Coleridge calls a sterling man, and with whom I shall guest. And then there are half a score whom I regard more than acquaintances-Carlisle, Duppa, &c. &c., not to mention all the oddities in my knowledge whom I love to shake hands with now and then, and hug myself at the consciousness of knowing such an unequalled assortment. Oh, if some Boswell would but save me the trouble of recording the unbelievable anecdotes I could tell! Stories which would be worth their weight in gold, when gold will be of no use to me. Coleridge is gone for Malta, and his departure affects me more than I let be seen. Let what will trouble me, I bear a calm face; and if the Boiling Well could be drawn (which, however it heaves and is agitated below, presents a smooth, undisturbed surface), that should be my emblem. It is now almost ten years since he and I first met, in my rooms at Oxford, which meeting decided the destiny of both; and now when, after so many ups and down, I am, for a time, settled under his roof, he is driven abroad in search of health. Ill he is, certainly and sorely ill; yet I believe if his mind was as well regulated as mine, the body would be quite as manageable. I am perpetually pained and mortified by thinking what he ought to be, for mine is an eye of microscopic discernment to the faults of my friends; but the tidings of his death would come upon me more like a stroke of lightning than any evil I have ever yet endured; almost it would make me superstitious, for we were two ships that left port in company. He has been sitting to Northcote for Sir George Beaumont. There is a finely painted, but dismal picture of him here, with a companion of Wordsworth. I enjoy the thought of your emotion when you will see that portrait of Wordsworth. It looks as if he had been a month in the condemned hole, dieted upon bread and water, and debarred the use of soap, water, razor, and combs; then taken out of prison, placed in a cart, carried to the usual place of execution, and had just suffered Jack Ketch to take off his cravat. The best of this good joke is, that the Wordsworths are proud of the picture, and that his face is the painter's ideal of excellence; and how the devil the painter has contrived to make a likeness of so well-looking a man so ridiculously ugly poozles everybody. I am expecting with pleasurable anticipation the beaver's back. Farewell. Yours, R. SOUTHEY. CCLXI. In 1794 Robert Lovell introduced Southey, then a lad of twenty, to Joseph Cottle, a wealthy and enlightened bookseller of Bristol, who was so delighted with him that he immediately printed a volume of his 'Poems' and his epic of Joan of Arc,' presenting the unknown aspirant with eighty guineas for the two copyrights. This generosity opened the career of Southey, and fourteen years afterwards, at the height of his reputation, he had not forgotten that fact. Cottle, in retiring from business, neglected to return the copyrights to Southey, and wrote to say he was sorry. This was Southey's reply. Robert Southey to Joseph Cottle. Wednesday evening. Greta Hall: My dear Cottle,What you say of my copy-rights affects mo very much. Dear Cottle, set your heart at rest on that subject. It ought to be at rest. They were yours; fairly bought, and fairly sold. You bought them on the chance of their success, what no London bookseller would have done; and had they not been bought, they could not have been published at all. Nay, if you had not published 'Joan of Arc,' the poem never would have existed, nor should I, in all probability, ever have obtained that reputation which is the capital on which I subsist, nor that power which enables me to support it. But this is not all. Do you suppose, Cottle, that I have forgotten those true and most essential acts of friendship which you showed me when I stood most in need of them? Your house was my house when I had no other. The very money with which I bought my wedding ring, and paid my marriage fees, was supplied by you. It was with your sisters that I left my Edith, during my six months' absence; and for the six months after my return, it was from you that I received, week by week, the little on which we lived, till I was enabled to live by other means. It is not the settling of our cash account that can cancel obligations like these. You are in the habit of preserving your letters, and if you were not, I would entreat you to preserve this, that it might be seen hereafter. Sure I am, that there never was a more generous, nor a kinder heart than yours, and you will believe me when I add, thạt there does not live that man upon earth, whom I remember with more gratitude, and more affection. My heart throbs, and my eyes burn with these recollections. Good night, my dear old friend and benefactor. ROBERT SOUTHEY. CCLXII. Robert Southey to John Rickman. Keswick: August 17-20, 1809. My dear Rickman,-I can wish you nothing better than that your life may be as long, your age as hale, and your death as easy as your father's. The death of a parent is a more awful sorrow than that of a child, but a less painful one: it is in the inevitable order and right course of nature that ripe fruit should fall; it seems like one of its mishaps when the green bud is cut off. In the outward and visible system of things, nothing is wasted: it would therefore be belying the whole system to believe that intellect and love,—which are of all things the best,-could perish. I have a strong and lively faith in a state of continued consciousness from this stage of existence, and that we shall recover the consciousness of some lower stages through which we may previously have past, seems to me not improbable. The supposition serves for dreams and systems, -the belief is a possession more precious than any other. I love life, and can thoroughly enjoy it; but if to exist were but a lifehold property, I am doubtful whether I should think the lease worth holding. It would be better never to have been than ever to cease to be. Still I shall hope for your coming. You would at any rate have been inconveniently late for the Highlands, for which as near Midsummer as possible is the best season. September is the best for this country. CCLXIII. In 1797 Coleridge introduced Lamb to Southey, whose mind proved so far more congenial to the great humourist than that of any other early literary friend, that his letters immediately began to take those delightful airs of fantastic whim which we identify with the name of Lamb. Charles Lamb to Robert Southey. 1798. My tailor has brought me home a new coat lapelled, with a velvet collar. He assures me every body wears velvet collars now. Some are born fashionable, some achieve fashion, and others, like your humble servant, have fashion thrust upon them. The rogue has been making inroads hitherto by modest degrees, foisting upon me an additional button, recommending gaiters, but to come upon me thus in a full tide of luxury, neither becomes him as a tailor or as the ninth of a man. My meek gentleman was robbed the other day, coming with his wife and family in a one-horse shay from Hampstead; the villains rifled him of four guineas, some shillings and half-pence, and a bundle of customers' measures, which they swore were bank-notes. They did not shoot him, and when they rode off he addrest them with profound gratitude, making a congee : 'Gentlemen, I wish you good night, and we are very much obliged to you that you have not used us ill!' And this is the cuckoo that has had the audacity to foist upon me ten buttons on a side, and a black velvet collar. A cursed ninth of a scoundrel! Yours sincerely, C. LAMB. CCLXIV. There was a little coldness between Coleridge and Lamb in 1798. Coleridge, with his usual pomposity, had told Lamb that he should be happy to instruct him on all points upon which he needed information, and this seems to have ruffled Lamb. Accordingly he drew up the following absurd table of theological queries and begged to have them expounded to him. Coleridge could see no fun in the joke, and called Lamb'a young visionary.' Charles Lamb to Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Theses quædam Theologica. 1st. Whether God loves a lying angel better than a true man? 2nd. Whether the archangel Uriel could affirm an untruth, and if he could, whether he would ? 3rd. Whether honesty be an angelic virtue, or not rather to be reckoned among those qualities which the schoolmen term 'Virtutes minus splendidæ ?' 4th. Whether the higher order of Seraphim illuminati ever sneer? 5th. Whether pure intelligences can love? 6th. Whether the Seraphim ardentes do not manifest their virtues, by the way of vision and theory; and whether practice be not a sub-celestial and merely human virtue ? |