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　　LETTER 205

　　CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

　　[Dated at end: August 9, 1814.]

　　Dear Wordsworth, I cannot tell you how pleased I was at the receit of the great Armful of Poetry which you have sent me, and to get it before the rest of the world too! I have gone quite through with it, and was thinking to have accomplishd that pleasure a second time before I wrote to thank you, but M. Burney came in the night (while we were out) and made holy theft of it, but we expect restitution in a day or two. It is the noblest conversational poem I ever read. A day in heaven. The part (or rather main body) which has left the sweetest odour on my memory (a bad term for the remains of an impression so recent) is the Tales of the Church yard. The only girl among seven brethren, born out of due time and not duly taken away again—the deaf man and the blind man—the Jacobite and the Hanoverian whom antipathies reconcile—the Scarron-entry of the rusticating parson upon his solitude—these were all new to me too. My having known the story of Margaret (at the beginning), a very old acquaintance, even as long back as I saw you first at Stowey, did not make her reappearance less fresh. I don't know what to pick out of this Best of Books upon the best subjects for partial naming.

　　That gorgeous Sunset is famous, I think it must have been the identical one we saw on Salisbury plain five years ago, that drew Phillips from the card table where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its unequall'd set, but neither he nor I had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified such as the prophets saw them, in that sunset—the wheel—the potter's clay—the wash pot—the wine press—the almond tree rod—the baskets of figs—the fourfold visaged head, the throne and him that sat thereon.

　　One feeling I was particularly struck with as what I recognised so very lately at Harrow Church on entering in it after a hot and secular day's pleasure,—the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming, properties of a country church just entered—a certain fragrance which it has—either from its holiness, or being kept shut all the week, or the air that is let in being pure country—exactly what you have reduced into words but I am feeling I cannot. The reading your lines about it fixed me for a time, a monument, in Harrow Church, (do you know it?) with its fine long Spire white as washd marble, to be seen by vantage of its high scite as far as Salisbury spire itself almost—

　　I shall select a day or two very shortly when I am coolest in brain to have a steady second reading, which I feel will lead to many more, for it will be a stock book with me while eyes or spectacles shall be lent me.

　　There is a deal of noble matter about mountain scenery, yet not so much as to overpower and discountenance a poor Londoner or South country man entirely, though Mary seems to have felt it occasionally a little too powerfully, for it was her remark during reading it that by your system it was doubtful whether a Liver in Towns had a Soul to be Saved. She almost trembled for that invisible part of us in her.

　　Save for a late excursion to Harrow and a day or two on the banks of the Thames this Summer, rural images were fast fading from my mind, and by the wise provision of the Regent all that was countryfy'd in the Parks is all but obliterated. The very colour of green is vanishd, the whole surface of Hyde Park is dry crumbling sand (Arabia Arenosa), not a vestige or hint of grass ever having grown there, booths and drinking places go all round it for a mile and half I am confident—I might say two miles in circuit—the stench of liquors, bad tobacco, dirty people and provisions, conquers the air and we are stifled and suffocated in Hyde Park.

　　Order after Order has been issued by L'd. Sidmouth in the name of the Regent (acting in behalf of his Royal father) for the dispersion of the varlets, but in vain. The vis unita of all the Publicans in London, Westm'r., Marybone, and miles round is too powerful a force to put down. The Regent has rais'd a phantom which he cannot lay. There they'll stay probably for ever. The whole beauty of the Place is gone—that lake—look of the Serpentine—it has got foolish ships upon it—but something whispers to have confidence in nature and its revival—

　　at the coming of the milder day These monuments shall all be overgrown.

　　Meantime I confess to have smoked one delicious Pipe in one of the cleanliest and goodliest of the booths—a tent rather, "O call it not a booth!"—erected by the public Spirit of Watson, who keeps the Adam and Eve at Pancras (the ale houses have all emigrated with their train of bottles, mugs, corkscrews, waiters, into Hyde Park—whole Ale houses with all their Ale!) in company with some of the guards that had been in France and a fine French girl (habited like a Princess of Banditti) which one of the dogs had transported from the Garonne to the Serpentine. The unusual scene, in H. Park, by Candlelight in open air, good tobacco, bottled stout, made it look like an interval in a campaign, a repose after battle, I almost fancied scars smarting and was ready to club a story with my comrades of some of my lying deeds.

　　After all, the fireworks were splendent—the Rockets in clusters, in trees and all shapes, spreading about like young stars in the making, floundering about in Space (like unbroke horses) till some of Newton's calculations should fix them, but then they went out. Any one who could see 'em and the still finer showers of gloomy rain fire that fell sulkily and angrily from 'em, and could go to bed without dreaming of the Last Day, must be as hardened an Atheist as * * * * * *.

　　Again let me thank you for your present and assure you that fireworks and triumphs have not distracted me from receiving a calm and noble enjoyment from it (which I trust I shall often), and I sincerely congratulate you on its appearance.

　　With kindest remembrances to you & household, we remain—yours sincerely

　　C. LAMB and sister.

　　9 Aug., 1814.

　　[With this letter Lamb's second epistolary period may be said to begin.

　　Wordsworth had sent Lamb a copy of The Excursion, which had been published in July, 1814. In connection with this letter Lamb's review of the poem in the Quarterly (see Vol. I. of this edition) should be read. The tales of the churchyard are in Books VI. and VII. The story of Margaret had been written in 1795.

　　The "sunset scene" (see letter of September 19, 1814) is at the end of

　　Book II. Lamb refers to his visit to Hazlitt at Winterslow, near

　　Salisbury, in 1809, with Mary Lamb, Colonel Phillips and Martin Burney.

　　Wordsworth was not with them. This is the passage:—

　　So was he lifted gently from the ground,

　　And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved

　　Through the dull mist, I following—when a step,

　　A single step, that freed me from the skirts

　　Of the blind vapour, opened to my view

　　Glory beyond all glory ever seen

　　By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!

　　The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,

　　Was of a mighty city—boldly say

　　A wilderness of building, sinking far

　　And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth,

　　Far sinking into splendour—without end!

　　Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold,

　　With alabaster domes, and silver spires,

　　And blazing terrace upon terrace, high

　　Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,

　　In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt

　　With battlements that on their restless fronts

　　Bore stars—illumination of all gems!

　　By earthly nature had the effect been wrought

　　Upon the dark materials of the storm

　　Now pacified; on them, and on the coves

　　And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto

　　The vapours had receded, taking there

　　Their station under a cerulean sky.

　　Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight!

　　Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf,

　　Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,

　　Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,

　　Molten together, and composing thus,

　　Each lost in each, that marvellous array

　　Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge

　　Fantastic pomp of structure without name,

　　In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.

　　Right in the midst, where interspace appeared

　　Of open court, an object like a throne

　　Under a shining canopy of state

　　Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen

　　To implements of ordinary use,

　　But vast in size, in substance glorified;

　　Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld

　　In vision—forms uncouth of mightiest power

　　For admiration and mysterious awe.

　　In August, 1814, London was in a state of jubilation over the declaration of peace between England and France. Lord Sidmouth, late Mr. Addington, the Home Secretary, known as "The Doctor," was one of Lamb's butts in his political epigrams.

　　"* * * * * *." I assume these stars to stand for Godwin.] The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 5