NOT a sentence, not a syllable of
Trismegistus, shall be lost through my neglect. I am
his word-banker, his storekeeper of puns and syllogisms. You cannot conceive
(and if Trismegistus
234 | LETTERS OF C. AND M. LAMB | Feb. |
1802 | “THE LONDONER” | 235 |
In all this time I have done but one thing, which I reckon tolerable, and that I will transcribe, because it may give you pleasure, being a picture of my humours. You will find it in my last page. It absurdly is a first Number of a series, thus strangled in its birth.
More news! The Professor’s Rib has come out to be a damn’d disagreeable woman, so much so as to drive me and some more old cronies from his house. If a man will keep snakes in his house, he must not wonder if people are shy of coming to see him because of the snakes.
Apropos, I think you wrong about my play. All the omissions are right. And the supplementary scene, in which Sandford narrates the manner in which his master is affected, is the best in the book. It stands where a hodge-podge of German puerilities used to stand. I insist upon it that you like that scene. Love me, love that scene. I will now transcribe the “Londoner” (No. 1), and wind up all with affection and humble servant at the end.
In compliance with my own particular humour, no less
than with thy laudable curiosity, Reader, I proceed to give thee some
account of my history and habits. I was born under the nose of St.
Dunstan’s steeple, just where the conflux of the eastern and western
inhabitants of this twofold city meet and justle in friendly opposition at
Temple-bar. The same day which gave me to the world saw London happy in the
celebration of her great annual feast. This I cannot help looking upon as a
lively type or omen of the future great goodwill which I was destined to
bear toward the City, resembling in kind that solicitude which every Chief
Magistrate is supposed to feel for whatever concerns her interests and
well-being. Indeed, I consider myself in some sort a speculative Lord Mayor
of London: for, though circumstances unhappily preclude me from the hope of
ever arriving at the dignity of a gold
236 | LETTERS OF C. AND M. LAMB | Feb. |
To return to myself (from whence my zeal for the Public good is perpetually causing me to digress), I will let thee, Reader, into certain more of my peculiarities. I was born (as you have heard), bred, and have passed most of my time, in a crowd. This has begot in me an entire affection for that way of life, amounting to an almost insurmountable aversion from solitude and rural scenes. This aversion was never interrupted or suspended, except for a few years in the younger part of my life, during a period in which I had fixed my affections upon a charming young woman. Every man, while the passion is upon him, is for a time at least addicted to groves and meadows, and purling streams. During this short period of my existence, I contracted just enough familiarity with rural objects to understand tolerably well ever after the Poets, when they declaim in such passionate terms in favour of a country life.
For my own part, now the fit is long past, I have no hesitation in declaring, that a mob of happy faces crowding up at the pit door of Drury-Lane Theatre just at the hour of five, give me ten thousand finer pleasures, than I ever received from all the flocks of silly sheep, that have whitened the plains of Arcadia or Epsom Downs.
This passion for crowds is no where feasted so full as in London. The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet-street. I am naturally inclined to hypochondria, but in London it vanishes, like all other ills. Often when I have felt a weariness or distaste at home, have I rushed out into her crowded Strand, and fed my humour, till tears have wetted my cheek for inutterable sympathies with the multitudinous moving picture, which she never fails to present at all hours, like the shifting scenes of a skilful Pantomime.
The very deformities of London, which give distaste to
others, from habit do not displease me. The endless succession of shops,
where Fancy (miscalled Folly) is supplied with perpetual new gauds and
toys, excite in me no puritanical aversion. I gladly behold every appetite
supplied with its proper food. The obliging customer, and the obliged
tradesmen—things which live by bowing,
1802 | MANNING IN PARIS | 237 |
Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing— |
Reader, in the course of my peregrinations about the great city, it is hard, if I have not picked up matter, which may serve to amuse thee, as it has done me, a winter evening long. When next we meet, I purpose opening my budget—Till when, farewell.
“What is all this about?” said Mrs. Shandy. “A story of a cock and a bull,” said Yorick: and so it is; but Manning will take good-naturedly what God will send him across the water: only I hope he won’t shut his eyes, and open his mouth, as the children say, for that is the way to gape, and not to read. Manning, continue your laudable purpose of making me your register. I will render back all your remarks; and I, not you, shall have received usury by having read them. In the mean time, may the great Spirit have you in his keeping, and preserve our Englishmen from the inoculation of frivolity and sin upon French earth.
Allons—or what is it you say, instead of good-bye?
Mary sends her kind remembrance, and covets the remarks equally with me.