The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 338 : Was Coleridge often with you? or did your brother and Col. argue long arguments, till

Was Coleridge often with you? or did your brother and Col. argue long arguments, till between the two great arguers there grew a little coolness?--or perchance the mighty friends.h.i.+p between Coleridge and your Sovereign Governor, Sir Alexander Ball, might create a kind of jealousy, for we fancy something of a coldness did exist, from the little mention ever made of C. in your brother's letters.

Write us, my good girl, a long, gossiping letter, answering all these foolish questions--and tell me any silly thing you can recollect--any, the least particular, will be interesting to us, and we will never tell tales out of school: but we used to wonder and wonder, how you all went on; and when you was coming home we said, "Now we shall hear all from Sarah."

G.o.d bless you, my dear friend.

I am ever your affectionate

MARY LAMB.

If you have sent Charles any commissions he has not executed, write me word--he says he has lost or mislaid a letter desiring him to inquire about a wig.

Write two letters--one of business and pensions, and one all about Sarah Stoddart and Malta. Is Mr. Moncrief doing well there?

Wednesday morning.

We have got a picture of Charles; do you think your brother would like to have it? If you do, can you put us in a way how to send it?

[Mrs. Stoddart was the widow of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy. Mr. Wray and Mr. Pearce were presumably gentlemen connected with the Admiralty or in some way concerned with the pension. "William" is still the early William--not William Hazlitt, whom Sarah was destined to marry. Mr.

Moncrieff was Mrs. John Stoddart's eldest brother, who was a King's Advocate in the Admiralty Court at Malta. The picture of Charles might be some kind of reproduction of Hazlitt's portrait of him, painted in the preceding year; but more probably, I think, a few copies of Hanc.o.c.k's drawing, made in 1798 for Cottle, had been struck off.]

LETTER 138

CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM AND DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

[P.M. September 28, 1805.]

My dear Wordsworth (or Dorothy rather, for to you appertains the biggest part of this answer by right.)--I will not again deserve reproach by so long a silence. I have kept deluding myself with the idea that Mary would write to you, but she is so lazy, or, I believe the true state of the case, so diffident, that it must revert to me as usual. Though she writes a pretty good style, and has some notion of the force of words, she is not always so certain of the true orthography of them, and that and a poor handwriting (in this age of female calligraphy) often deter her where no other reason does. We have neither of us been very well for some weeks past. I am very nervous, and she most so at those times when I am: so that a merry friend, adverting to the n.o.ble consolation we were able to afford each other, denominated us not unaptly Gum Boil and Tooth Ache: for they use to say that a Gum Boil is a great relief to a Tooth Ache. We have been two tiny excursions this summer, for three or four days each: to a place near Harrow, and to Egham, where Cooper's Hill is: and that is the total history of our Rustications this year. Alas! how poor a sound to Skiddaw, and Helvellyn, and Borrodaile, and the magnificent sesquipedalia of the year 1802. Poor old Molly! to have lost her pride, that "last infirmity of n.o.ble Mind," and her Cow--Providence need not have set her wits to such an old Molly. I am heartily sorry for her. Remember us lovingly to her. And in particular remember us to Mrs.

Clarkson in the most kind manner. I hope by southwards you mean that she will be at or near London, for she is a great favorite of both of us, and we feel for her health as much as is possible for any one to do. She is one of the friendliest, comfortablest women we know, and made our little stay at your cottage one of the pleasantest times we ever past.

We were quite strangers to her. Mr. C. is with you too?--our kindest separate remembrances to him.

As to our special affairs, I am looking about me. I have done nothing since the beginning of last year, when I lost my newspaper job, and having had a long idleness, I must do something, or we shall get very poor. Sometimes I think of a farce--but hitherto all schemes have gone off,--an idle brag or two of an evening vaporing out of a pipe, and going off in the morning; but now I have bid farewell to my "Sweet Enemy" Tobacco, as you will see in my next page, I perhaps shall set soberly to work. Hang Work! I wish that all the year were holyday. I am sure that Indolence indefeazible Indolence is the true state of man, and business the invention of the Old Teazer who persuaded Adam's Master to give him an ap.r.o.n and set him a houghing. Pen and Ink, and Clerks, and desks, were the refinements of this old torturer a thousand years after, under pretence of Commerce allying distant sh.o.r.es, promoting and diffusing knowledge, good, &c.--

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

May the Babylonish curse Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a pa.s.sage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide an acre) To take leave of thee, Tobacco; Or in any terms relate Half my Love, or half my Hate, For I hate yet love thee so, That, whichever Thing I shew, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the pa.s.sion to proceed More from a Mistress than a Weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine, Sorcerer that mak'st us doat upon Thy begrim'd complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed Lovers take 'Gainst women: Thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the labouring breath Faster than kisses; or than Death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And Ill Fortune (that would thwart us) Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man thro' thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and Wit in richest dress) A Sicilian Fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist does shew us, That our best friends do not know us; And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters, that, who see us, fear us, Worse than Cerberus, or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou?

That but by reflex canst shew What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle-- Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and n.o.bler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee; that aidest more The G.o.d's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Baccha.n.a.ls; These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee meant_: only thou His true Indian Conquest art; And, for Ivy round his dart, The reformed G.o.d now weaves A finer Thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chymic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain; None so sovran to the brain.

Nature, that did in thee excell, Framed again no second smell.

Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant, Thou'rt the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite--------

Nay rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue, Blisters on the tongue would hurt you; 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee, None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee: Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplext Lovers use At a need, when in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies does so strike, They borrow language of Dislike, And instead of Dearest Miss, Honey, Jewel, Sweetheart, Bliss, And, those forms of old admiring, Call her c.o.c.katrice and Syren, Basilisk and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more, Friendly Traitress, Loving Foe: Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot, Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce,

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee-- For thy sake, _TOBACCO_, I Would do anything but die; And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise.

But, as She, who once has been A King's consort, is a Queen Ever after; nor will bate Any t.i.ttle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, (A right Katherine of Spain;) And a seat too 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys: Where, though I by sour physician Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and s.n.a.t.c.h Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still dwell in the by-places, And the suburbs of thy graces, And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

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 head aches 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 n.o.body about us that cares for Poetry, and who will rear grapes when he shall be the sole eater? Perhaps if you encourage us to shew you what we may write, we may do something now and then before we absolutely forget the quant.i.ty 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, everybody will have seen it that I wish to see it: I have sent it to Malta.

I remain Dear W. and D--yours truly, C. LAMB.

28th Sep., 1805.

["Hang Work." This paragraph is the germ of the sonnet ent.i.tled "Work"

which Lamb wrote fourteen years later (see the letter to Bernard Barton, Sept. 11, 1822). He seems always to have kept his thoughts in sight.

The "Farewell to Tobacco" was printed in the _Reflector_, No. IV., 1811 or 1812, and then in the Works, 1818 (see Notes to Vol. IV. of this edition). Lamb's farewell was frequently repeated; but it is a question whether he ever entirely left off smoking. Talfourd says that he did; but the late Mrs. Coe, who remembered Lamb at Widford about 1827-1830, credited him with the company of a black clay pipe. It was Lamb who, when Dr. Parr asked him how he managed to emit so much smoke, replied that he had toiled after it as other men after virtue. And Macready relates that he remarked in his presence that he wished to draw his last breath through a pipe and exhale it in a pun. Coleridge writing to Rickman (see _The Life and Letters of John Rickman_, 1912) says of Lamb and smoking: "Were it possible to win C.L. from the pipe, other things would follow with comparative ease, for till he gets a pipe I have regularly observed that he is contented with porter--and that the unconquerable appet.i.te for spirit comes in with the tobacco--the oil of which, especially in the gluttonous manner in which he _volcanizes_ it, acts as an instant poison on his stomach or lungs".

"Hestor Savory." See above.]

LETTER 139

MARY LAMB TO SARAH STODDART

[Early November, 1805.]

My dear Sarah,--Certainly you are the best letter-writer (besides writing the best hand) in the world. I have just been reading over again your two long letters, and I perceive they make me very envious. I have taken a brand new pen, and put on my _spectacles_, and am peering with all my might to see the lines in the paper, which the sight of your even lines had well nigh tempted me to rule: and I have moreover taken two pinches of snuff extraordinary, to clear my head, which feels more cloudy than common this fine, chearful morning.

All I can gather from your clear and, I have no doubt, faithful history of Maltese politics is, that the good Doctor, though a firm friend, an excellent fancier of brooches, a good husband, an upright Advocate, and, in short, all that they say upon tomb stones (for I do not recollect that they celebrate any fraternal virtues there) yet is but a _moody_ brother, that your sister in law is pretty much like what all sisters in law have been since the first happy invention of the happy marriage state; that friend Coleridge has undergone no alteration by crossing the Atlantic,--for his friendliness to you, as well as all the oddities you mention, are just what one ought to look for from him; and that you, my dear Sarah, have proved yourself just as unfit to flourish in a little, proud Garrison Town as I did shrewdly suspect you were before you went there.

If I possibly can, I will prevail upon Charles to write to your brother by the conveyance you mention; but he is so unwell, I almost fear the fortnight will slip away before I can get him in the right vein. Indeed, it has been sad and heavy times with us lately: when I am pretty well, his low spirits throws me back again; and when he begins to get a little chearful, then I do the same kind office for him. I heartily wish for the arrival of Coleridge; a few such evenings as we have sometimes pa.s.sed with him would wind us up, and set us a going again.

Do not say any thing, when you write, of our low spirits--it will vex Charles. You would laugh, or you would cry, perhaps both, to see us sit together, looking at each other with long and rueful faces, and saying, "how do you do?" and "how do you do?" and then we fall a-crying, and say we will be better on the morrow. He says we are like toothach and his friend gum bile--which, though a kind of ease, is but an uneasy kind of ease, a comfort of rather an uncomfortable sort.

I rejoice to hear of your Mother's amendment; when you can leave her with any satisfaction to yourself--which, as her sister, I think I understand by your letters, is with her, I hope you may soon be able to do--let me know upon what plan you mean to come to Town. Your brother proposed your being six months in Town, and six with your Mother; but he did not then know of your poor Mother's illness. By his desire, I enquired for a respectable family for you, to board with; and from Capt'n. Burney I heard of one I thought would suit you at that time. He particularly desires I would not think of your being with us, not thinking, I conjecture, the home of a single man _respectable_ enough.

Your brother gave me most unlimited orders to domineer over you, to be the inspector of all your actions, and to direct and govern you with a stern voice and a high hand, to be, in short, a very elder brother over you--does not the hearing of this, my meek pupil, make you long to come to London? I am making all the proper enquiries against the time of the newest and most approved modes (being myself mainly ignorant in these points) of etiquette, and nicely correct maidenly manners.