The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 302 : LETTER 37 CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Nov. 3, 1798.I have read your Eclogue ["

LETTER 37

CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY

Nov. 3, 1798.

I have read your Eclogue ["The Wedding"] 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 a 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 common-place 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 circ.u.mstances of her own nuptials six years ago, the smugness of the bride-groom, 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 anything else, or that I have suggested anything new or material.

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.

LETTER 38

CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY

Nov. 8th, 1798.

I do not know that I much prefer this Eclogue [Lamb has received 'The Last of the Flock'] to the last ['The Wedding']; both are inferior to the former ['The Ruined Cottage'].

"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 pa.s.sage that affected me.

Servants speak, and their language ought to be plain, and not much raised above the common, else I should find fault with the bathos of this pa.s.sage:

"And when I heard the bell strike out, I thought (what?) that I had never heard it toll So dismally before."

I like the destruction of the martens' old nests hugely, having just such a circ.u.mstance in my memory.[1] I should be very glad to see your remaining Eclogue, if not too much trouble, as you give me reason to expect it will be the second best.

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 soliloquises in company with a full heart. What wretched stuff are the "Divine Fancies" of Quarles! Religion appears to him no longer valuable than it furnishes matter for quibbles and riddles; he turns G.o.d'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 W., and sometimes admire Q. Still that portrait poem is a fine one; and the extract from "The Shepherds'

Hunting" places him in a starry height far above Quarles. If you wrote that review in "Crit. Rev.," 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 pa.s.sage fertile in unmeaning miracles, but have pa.s.sed by fifty pa.s.sages 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, And I bless'd them unaware--"

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 G.o.d himself Scarce seemed 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 a.s.suring you that I am

Sincerely yours,

C. LAMB.

I am going to meet Lloyd at Ware on Sat.u.r.day, 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.

[Footnote 1: The destruction of the martens' nests, in "The Last of the Family," runs thus:--

I remember, Eight months ago, when the young Squire began To alter the old mansion, they destroy'd The martins' nests, that had stood undisturb'd Under that roof, ... ay! long before my memory.

I shook my head at seeing it, and thought No good could follow.]

[Lamb's ripe judgment of Wither will be found in his essay "On the Poetical Works of George Wither," in the _Works_, 1818 (see Vol. I. of this edition). "The portrait poem" would be "The Author's Meditation upon Sight of His Picture," prefixed to _Emblems_, 1635.

_Lyrical Ballads_, by Wordsworth and Coleridge, had just been published by Cottle. "The Ancient Mariner" stood first. "That last poem" was Wordsworth's "Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey." Southey (?) reviewed the book in the _Critical Review_ for October, 1798. Of the "Ancient Mariner" he said: "It is a Dutch attempt at German sublimity.

Genius has here been employed in producing a poem of little merit."

Here should come a letter from Lamb to Robert Lloyd, dated November 13, 1798, not available for this edition. Robert Lloyd seems to have said in his last letter that the world was drained of all its sweets. Lamb sends him a beautiful pa.s.sage in praise of the world's good things--the first foretaste in the correspondence of his later ecstatic manner.

Here also should come a letter from Lamb to Southey, which apparently does not now exist, containing "The Dying Lover," an extract from Lamb's play. I have taken the text from the version of the play sent to Manning late in 1800.

THE DYING LOVER

_Margaret_. ... I knew a youth who died For grief, because his Love proved so, And married to another.

I saw him on the wedding day, For he was present in the church that day, And in his best apparel too, As one that came to grace the ceremony.

I mark'd him when the ring was given, His countenance never changed; And when the priest p.r.o.nounced the marriage blessing, He put a silent prayer up for the bride, _For they stood near who saw his lips move_.

He came invited to the marriage-feast With the bride's friends, And was the merriest of them all that day; But they, who knew him best, call'd it feign'd mirth; And others said, He wore a smile like death's upon his face.

His presence dash'd all the beholders' mirth, And he went away in tears.

_Simon_. What followed then?

_Marg_. Oh! then He did not as neglected suitors use Affect a life of solitude in shades, But lived, In free discourse and sweet society, Among his friends who knew his gentle nature best.

Yet ever when he smiled, There was a mystery legible in his face, That whoso saw him said he was a man Not long for this world.-- And true it was, for even then The silent love was feeding at his heart Of which he died: Nor ever spake word of reproach, Only he wish'd in death that his remains Might find a poor grave in some spot, not far From his mistress' family vault, "being the place Where one day Anna should herself be laid."

The line in italics Lamb crossed through in the Manning copy. The last four lines he crossed through and marked "_very_ bad." I have reproduced them here because of the autobiographical hint contained in the word Anna, which was the name given by Lamb to his "fair-haired maid" in his love sonnets.]

LETTER 39