I've been told by my friends (if they do not belie me) My promise was such as no parent would scorn; The wise and the aged who prophesied by me, Augur'd nothing but good of me when I was born.

But vain are the hopes which are form'd by a parent, Fallacious the marks which in infancy shine; My frail constitution soon made it apparent, I nourish'd within me the seeds of decline.

On a sick bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started, My grief-wasted frame to a skeleton fell; My physicians foreboding took leave and departed, And they wish'd me dead now, who wished me well.

Life and soul were kept in by a mother's assistance, Who struggled with faith, and prevail'd 'gainst despair; Like an angel she watch'd o'er the lamp of existence, And never would leave while a glimmer was there.

By her care I'm alive now—but what retribution Can I for a life twice bestow'd thus confer? Were I to be silent, each year's revolution Proclaims—each new birth-day is owing to her.

The chance-rooted tree that by way-sides is planted, Where no friendly hand will watch o'er its young shoots, Has less blame if in autumn, when produce is wanted, Enrich'd by small culture it put forth small fruits.

But that which with labour in hot-beds is reared, Secur'd by nice art from the dews and the rains, Unsound at the root may with justice be feared, If it pay not with int'rest the tiller's hard pains.

THE BEASTS IN THE TOWER

Within the precincts of this yard, Each in his narrow confines barr'd, Dwells every beast that can be found On Afric or on Indian ground. How different was the life they led In those wild haunts where they were bred, To this tame servitude and fear, Enslav'd by man, they suffer here!

In that uneasy close recess Couches a sleeping Lioness; The next den holds a Bear; the next A Wolf, by hunger ever vext; There, fiercer from the keeper's lashes, His teeth the fell Hyena gnashes; That creature on whose back abound Black spots upon a yellow ground, A Panther is, the fairest beast That haunteth in the spacious East. He underneath a fair outside Does cruelty and treach'ry hide.

That cat-like beast that to and fro Restless as fire does ever go, As if his courage did resent His limbs in such confinement pent, That should their prey in forests take, And make the Indian jungles quake, A Tiger is. Observe how sleek And glossy smooth his coat: no streak On sattin ever match'd the pride Of that which marks his furry hide. How strong his muscles! he with ease Upon the tallest man could seize, In his large mouth away could bear him, And into thousand pieces tear him: Yet cabin'd so securely here, The smallest infant need not fear.

That lordly creature next to him A Lion is. Survey each limb. Observe the texture of his claws, The massy thickness of those jaws; His mane that sweeps the ground in length, Like Samson's locks, betok'ning strength. In force and swiftness he excels Each beast that in the forest dwells; The savage tribes him king confess Throughout the howling wilderness. Woe to the hapless neighbourhood, When he is press'd by want of food! Of man, or child, of bull, or horse, He makes his prey; such is his force. A waste behind him he creates, Whole villages depopulates. Yet here within appointed lines How small a grate his rage confines!

This place methinks resembleth well The world itself in which we dwell. Perils and snares on every ground Like these wild beasts beset us round. But Providence their rage restrains, Our heavenly Keeper sets them chains; His goodness saveth every hour His darlings from the Lion's power.

THE CONFIDANT

Anna was always full of thought As if she'd many sorrows known, Yet mostly her full heart was fraught With troubles that were not her own; For the whole school to Anna us'd to tell Whatever small misfortunes unto them befell.

And being so by all belov'd, That all into her bosom pour'd Their dearest secrets, she was mov'd To pity all—her heart a hoard, Or storehouse, by this means became for all The sorrows can to girls of tender age befall.

Though individually not much Distress throughout the school prevail'd, Yet as she shar'd it all, 'twas such A weight of woe that her assail'd, She lost her colour, loath'd her food, and grew So dull, that all their confidence from her withdrew.

Released from her daily care, No longer list'ning to complaint, She seems to breathe a different air, And health once more her cheek does paint. Still Anna loves her friends, but will not hear Again their list of grievances which cost so dear.

THOUGHTLESS CRUELTY

There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly— And should you thousand ages try The life you've taken to supply, You could not do it.

You surely must have been devoid Of thought and sense, to have destroy'd A thing which no way you annoy'd— You'll one day rue it.

'Twas but a fly perhaps you'll say, That's born in April, dies in May; That does but just learn to display His wings one minute,

And in the next is vanish'd quite. A bird devours it in his flight— Or come a cold blast in the night, There's no breath in it.

The bird but seeks his proper food— And Providence, whose power endu'd That fly with life, when it thinks good, May justly take it.

But you have no excuses for't— A life by Nature made so short, Less reason is that you for sport Should shorter make it.

A fly a little thing you rate— But, Robert, do not estimate A creature's pain by small or great; The greatest being

Can have but fibres, nerves, and flesh, And these the smallest ones possess, Although their frame and structure less Escape our seeing.

EYES

Lucy, what do you espy In the cast in Jenny's eye That should you to laughter move? I far other feelings prove. When on me she does advance Her good-natur'd countenance, And those eyes which in their way Saying much, so much would say, They to me no blemish seem, Or as none I them esteem; I their imperfection prize Above other clearer eyes.

Eyes do not as jewels go By the brightness and the show, But the meanings which surround them, And the sweetness shines around them.

Isabel's are black as jet, But she cannot that forget, And the pains she takes to show them Robs them of the praise we owe them. Ann's, though blue, affected fall; Kate's are bright, but fierce withal; And the sparklers of her sister From ill-humour lose their lustre. Only Jenny's eyes we see, By their very plainness, free From the vices which do smother All the beauties of the other.

PENNY PIECES

"I keep it, dear Papa, within my glove." "You do—what sum then usually, my love, Is there deposited? I make no doubt, Some Penny Pieces you are not without."

"O no, Papa, they'd soil my glove, and be Quite odious things to carry. O no—see, This little bit of gold is surely all That I shall want; for I shall only call For a small purchase I shall make, Papa, And a mere trifle I'm to buy Mamma, Just to make out the change: so there's no need To carry Penny Pieces, Sir, indeed."

"O now I know then why a blind man said Unto a dog which this blind beggar led,— 'Where'er you see some fine young ladies, Tray, Be sure you lead me quite another way. The poor man's friend fair ladies us'd to be; But now I find no tale of misery Will ever from their pockets draw a penny.'— The blind man did not see they wear not any."

THE RAINBOW

After the tempest in the sky How sweet yon Rainbow to the eye! Come, my Matilda, now while some Few drops of rain are yet to come, In this honeysuckle bower Safely shelter'd from the shower, We may count the colours o'er.— Seven there are, there are no more; Each in each so finely blended, Where they begin, or where are ended, The finest eye can scarcely see. A fixed thing it seems to be; But, while we speak, see how it glides Away, and now observe it hides Half of its perfect arch—now we Scarce any part of it can see. What is colour? If I were A natural philosopher, I would tell you what does make This meteor every colour take: But an unlearned eye may view Nature's rare sights, and love them too. Whenever I a Rainbow see, Each precious tint is dear to me; For every colour find I there, Which flowers, which fields, which ladies wear; My favourite green, the grass's hue, And the fine deep violet-blue, And the pretty pale blue-bell, And the rose I love so well, All the wondrous variations Of the tulip, pinks, carnations, This woodbine here both flower and leaf;— 'Tis a truth that's past belief, That every flower and every tree, And every living thing we see, Every face which we espy, Every cheek and every eye, In all their tints, in every shade, Are from the Rainbow's colours made.

THE FORCE OF HABIT

A little child, who had desired To go and see the Park guns fired, Was taken by his maid that way Upon the next rejoicing day. Soon as the unexpected stroke Upon his tender organs broke, Confus'd and stunn'd at the report, He to her arms fled for support, And begg'd to be convey'd at once Out of the noise of those great guns, Those naughty guns, whose only sound Would kill (he said) without a wound: So much of horror and offence The shock had giv'n his infant sense. Yet this was He in after days Who fill'd the world with martial praise, When from the English quarter-deck His steady courage sway'd the wreck Of hostile fleets, disturb'd no more By all that vast conflicting roar, That sky and sea did seem to tear, When vessels whole blew up in air, Than at the smallest breath that heaves, When Zephyr hardly stirs the leaves.

CLOCK STRIKING

Did I hear the church-clock a few minutes ago, I was ask'd, and I answer'd, I hardly did know, But I thought that I heard it strike three. Said my friend then, "The blessings we always possess We know not the want of, and prize them the less; The church-clock was no new sound to thee.

"A young woman, afflicted with deafness a year, By that sound you scarce heard, first perceiv'd she could hear; I was near her, and saw the girl start With such exquisite wonder, such feelings of pride, A happiness almost to terror allied, She shew'd the sound went to her heart."

WHY NOT DO IT, SIR, TO-DAY?

"Why so I will, you noisy bird, This very day I'll advertise you, Perhaps some busy ones may prize you. A fine-tongu'd parrot as was ever heard, I'll word it thus—set forth all charms about you, And say no family should be without you."

Thus far a gentleman address'd a bird, Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator, Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her? Though she but seven words can say, Twenty and twenty times a day She interferes with all my dreams, My projects, plans, and airy schemes, Mocking my foible to my sorrow: I'll advertise this bird to-morrow."

To this the bird seven words did say: "Why not do it, Sir, to-day?"

HOME DELIGHTS

To operas and balls my cousins take me, And fond of plays my new-made friend would make me. In summer season, when the days are fair, In my godmother's coach I take the air. My uncle has a stately pleasure barge, Gilded and gay, adorn'd with wondrous charge; The mast is polish'd, and the sails are fine, The awnings of white silk like silver shine; The seats of crimson sattin, where the rowers Keep time to music with their painted oars; In this on holydays we oft resort To Richmond, Twickenham, or to Hampton Court. By turns we play, we sing—one baits the hook, Another angles—some more idle look At the small fry that sport beneath the tides, Or at the swan that on the surface glides. My married sister says there is no feast Equal to sight of foreign bird or beast. With her in search of these I often roam: My kinder parents make me blest at home. Tir'd of excursions, visitings, and sights, No joys are pleasing to these home delights.

THE COFFEE SLIPS

Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink, I on the generous Frenchman think, Whose noble perseverance bore The tree to Martinico's shore. While yet her colony was new, Her island products but a few, Two shoots from off a coffee-tree He carried with him o'er the sea. Each little tender coffee slip He waters daily in the ship, And as he tends his embryo trees, Feels he is raising midst the seas Coffee groves, whose ample shade Shall screen the dark Creolian maid. But soon, alas! his darling pleasure In watching this his precious treasure Is like to fade,—for water fails On board the ship in which he sails. Now all the reservoirs are shut, The crew on short allowance put; So small a drop is each man's share, Few leavings you may think there are To water these poor coffee plants;— But he supplies their gasping wants, Ev'n from his own dry parched lips He spares it for his coffee slips. Water he gives his nurslings first, Ere he allays his own deep thirst; Lest, if he first the water sip, He bear too far his eager lip. He sees them droop for want of more;— Yet when they reached the destin'd shore, With pride th' heroic gardener sees A living sap still in his trees. The islanders his praise resound; Coffee plantations rise around; And Martinico loads her ships With produce from those dear-sav'd slips.[1]

[Footnote 1: The name of this man was Desclieux, and the story is to be found in the Abbe Raynal's History of the Settlements and Trade of the Europeans in the East and West Indies, book XIII.]

THE DESSERT

With the apples and the plums Little Carolina comes, At the time of the dessert she Comes and drops her new last curt'sy; Graceful curt'sy, practis'd o'er In the nursery before. What shall we compare her to? The dessert itself will do. Like preserves she's kept with care, Like blanch'd almonds she is fair, Soft as down on peach her hair, And so soft, so smooth is each Pretty cheek as that same peach, Yet more like in hue to cherries; Then her lips, the sweet strawberries, Caroline herself shall try them If they are not like when nigh them; Her bright eyes are black as sloes, But I think we've none of those Common fruit here—and her chin From a round point does begin, Like the small end of a pear; Whiter drapery she does wear Than the frost on cake; and sweeter Than the cake itself, and neater, Though bedeck'd with emblems fine, Is our little Caroline.

TO A YOUNG LADY, ON BEING TOO FOND OF MUSIC

Why is your mind thus all day long Upon your music set; Till reason's swallow'd in a song, Or idle canzonet?

I grant you, Melesinda, when Your instrument was new, I was well pleas'd to see you then Its charms assiduous woo.

The rudiments of any art Or mast'ry that we try, Are only on the learner's part Got by hard industry.

But you are past your first essays; Whene'er you play, your touch, Skilful, and light, ensures you praise: All beyond that's too much.

Music's sweet uses are, to smooth Each rough and angry passion; To elevate at once, and soothe: A heavenly recreation.

But we misconstrue, and defeat The end of any good; When what should be our casual treat, We make our constant food.

While, to th' exclusion of the rest, This single art you ply, Your nobler studies are supprest, Your books neglected lie.

Could you in what you so affect The utmost summit reach; Beyond what fondest friends expect, Or skilful'st masters teach:

The skill you learn'd would not repay The time and pains it cost, Youth's precious season thrown away, And reading-leisure lost.

A benefit to books we owe, Music can ne'er dispense; The one does only sound bestow, The other gives us sense.

TIME SPENT IN DRESS

In many a lecture, many a book, You all have heard, you all have read, That time is precious. Of its use Much has been written, much been said.

The accomplishments which gladden life, As music, drawing, dancing, are Encroachers on our precious time; Their praise or dispraise I forbear.

They should be practis'd or forborne, As parents wish, or friends desire: What rests alone in their own will Is all I of the young require.

There's not a more productive source Of waste of time to the young mind Than dress; as it regards our hours My view of it is now confin'd.

Without some calculation, youth May live to age and never guess, That no one study they pursue Takes half the time they give to dress.

Write in your memorandum-book The time you at your toilette spend; Then every moment which you pass, Talking of dress with a young friend:

And ever when your silent thoughts Have on this subject been intent, Set down as nearly as you can How long on dress your thoughts were bent.

If faithfully you should perform This task, 'twould teach you to repair Lost hours, by giving unto dress Not more of time than its due share.

THE FAIRY

Said Ann to Matilda, "I wish that we knew If what we've been reading of fairies be true. Do you think that the poet himself had a sight of The fairies he here does so prettily write of? O what a sweet sight if he really had seen The graceful Titania, the Fairy-land Queen! If I had such dreams, I would sleep a whole year; I would not wish to wake while a fairy was near.— Now I'll fancy that I in my sleep have been seeing A fine little delicate lady-like being, Whose steps and whose motions so light were and airy, I knew at one glance that she must be a fairy. Her eyes they were blue, and her fine curling hair Of the lightest of browns, her complexion more fair Than I e'er saw a woman's; and then for her height, I verily think that she measur'd not quite Two feet, yet so justly proportion'd withal, I was almost persuaded to think she was tall. Her voice was the little thin note of a sprite— There—d'ye think I have made out a fairy aright? You'll confess, I believe, I've not done it amiss." "Pardon me," said Matilda, "I find in all this Fine description, you've only your young sister Mary Been taking a copy of here for a fairy."

CONQUEST OF PREJUDICE

Unto a Yorkshire school was sent A Negro youth to learn to write, And the first day young Juba went All gaz'd on him as a rare sight.

But soon with alter'd looks askance They view his sable face and form, When they perceive the scornful glance Of the head boy, young Henry Orme.

He in the school was first in fame: Said he, "It does to me appear To be a great disgrace and shame A black should be admitted here."

His words were quickly whisper'd round, And every boy now looks offended; The master saw the change, and found That Orme a mutiny intended.

Said he to Orme, "This African It seems is not by you approv'd; I'll find a way, young Englishman, To have this prejudice remov'd.

"Nearer acquaintance possibly May make you tolerate his hue; At least 'tis my intent to try What a short month may chance to do."

Young Orme and Juba then he led Into a room, in which there were For each of the two boys a bed, A table, and a wicker chair.

He lock'd them in, secur'd the key, That all access to them was stopt; They from without can nothing see; Their food is through a sky-light dropt.

A month in this lone chamber Orme Is sentenc'd during all that time To view no other face or form Than Juba's parch'd by Afric clime.

One word they neither of them spoke The first three days of the first week; On the fourth day the ice was broke; Orme was the first that deign'd to speak.

The dreary silence o'er, both glad To hear of human voice the sound, The Negro and the English lad Comfort in mutual converse found.

Of ships and seas, and foreign coast, Juba can speak, for he has been A voyager: and Orme can boast He London's famous town has seen.

In eager talk they pass the day, And borrow hours ev'n from the night; So pleasantly time past away, That they have lost their reckoning quite.

And when their master set them free, They thought a week was sure remitted, And thank'd him that their liberty Had been before the time permitted.

Now Orme and Juba are good friends; The school, by Orme's example won, Contend who most shall make amends For former slights to Afric's son.

THE GREAT GRANDFATHER

My father's grandfather lives still, His age is fourscore years and ten; He looks a monument of time, The agedest of aged men.

Though years lie on him like a load, A happier man you will not see Than he, whenever he can get His great grand-children on his knee.

When we our parents have displeas'd, He stands between us as a screen; By him our good deeds in the sun, Our bad ones in the shade are seen.

His love's a line that's long drawn out, Yet lasteth firm unto the end; His heart is oak, yet unto us It like the gentlest reed can bend.

A fighting soldier he has been— Yet by his manners you would guess, That he his whole long life had spent In scenes of country quietness.

His talk is all of things long past, For modern facts no pleasure yield— Of the fam'd year of forty-five, Of William, and Culloden's field.

The deeds of this eventful age, Which princes from their thrones have hurl'd, Can no more interest wake in him Than stories of another world.

When I his length of days revolve, How like a strong tree he hath stood, It brings into my mind almost Those patriarchs old before the flood.

THE SPARTAN BOY

When I the memory repeat Of the heroic actions great, Which, in contempt of pain and death, Were done by men who drew their breath In ages past, I find no deed That can in fortitude exceed The noble Boy, in Sparta bred, Who in the temple minist'red.

By the sacrifice he stands, The lighted incense in his hands. Through the smoking censer's lid Dropp'd a burning coal, which slid Into his sleeve, and passed in Between the folds ev'n to the skin. Dire was the pain which then he prov'd; But not for this his sleeve he mov'd, Or would the scorching ember shake Out from the folds, lest it should make Any confusion, or excite Disturbance at the sacred rite. But close he kept the burning coal, Till it eat itself a hole In his flesh. The slanders by Saw no sign, and heard no cry, Of his pangs had no discerning, Till they smell'd the flesh aburning All this he did in noble scorn, And for he was a Spartan born.

Young student, who this story readest, And with the same thy thoughts now feedest, Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid To do the thing the Spartan did; Thy feebler heart could not sustain Such dire extremity of pain. But in this story thou mayst see, What may useful prove to thee. By his example thou wilt find, That to the ingenuous mind Shame can greater anguish bring Than the body's suffering; That pain is not the worst of ills, Not when it the body kills; That in fair religion's cause, For thy country, or the laws, When occasion due shall offer 'Tis reproachful not to suffer. If thou shouldst a soldier be, And a wound should trouble thee, If without the soldier's fame Thou to chance shouldst owe a maim, Do not for a little pain On thy manhood bring a stain; But to keep thy spirits whole, Think on the Spartan and the coal.

QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM

(Text of 1818)

On a bank with roses shaded, Whose sweet scent the violets aided, Violets whose breath alone Yields but feeble smell or none, (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er repos'd on When his eyes Olympus closed on,) While o'er head six slaves did hold Canopy of cloth o' gold, And two more did music keep, Which might Juno lull to sleep, Oriana who was queen To the mighty Tamerlane, That was lord of all the land Between Thrace and Samarchand, While the noon-tide fervor beam'd, Mused herself to sleep, and dream'd.

Thus far, in magnific strain, A young poet sooth'd his vein, But he had nor prose nor numbers To express a princess' slumbers.— Youthful Richard had strange fancies, Was deep versed in old romances, And could talk whole hours upon The great Cham and Prester John,— Tell the field in which the Sophi From the Tartar won a trophy— What he read with such delight of, Thought he could as eas'ly write of— But his over-young invention Kept not pace with brave intention. Twenty suns did rise and set, And he could no further get; But, unable to proceed, Made a virtue out of need, And, his labours wiselier deem'd of, Did omit what the queen dream'd of.

ON A PICTURE OF THE FINDING OF MOSES BY PHARAOH'S DAUGHTER

This Picture does the story express Of Moses in the Bulrushes. How livelily the painter's hand By colours makes us understand!

Moses that little infant is. This figure is his sister. This Fine stately lady is no less A personage than a princess, Daughter of Pharaoh, Egypt's king; Whom Providence did hither bring This little Hebrew child to save. See how near the perilous wave He lies exposed in the ark, His rushy cradle, his frail bark! Pharaoh, king of Egypt land, In his greatness gave command To his slaves, they should destroy Every new-born Hebrew boy. This Moses was an Hebrew's son. When he was born, his birth to none His mother told, to none reveal'd, But kept her goodly child conceal'd. Three months she hid him; then she wrought With Bulrushes this ark, and brought Him in it to this river's side, Carefully looking far and wide To see that no Egyptian eye Her ark-hid treasure should espy. Among the river-flags she lays The child. Near him his sister stays. We may imagine her affright, When the king's daughter is in sight. Soon the princess will perceive The ark among the flags, and give Command to her attendant maid That its contents shall be display'd. Within the ark the child is found, And now he utters mournful sound. Behold he weeps, as if he were Afraid of cruel Egypt's heir! She speaks, she says, "This little one I will protect, though he the son Be of an Hebrew." Every word She speaks is by the sister heard. And now observe, this is the part The painter chose to show his art. Look at the sister's eager eye, As here she seems advancing nigh. Lowly she bends, says, "Shall I go And call a nurse to thee? I know A Hebrew woman liveth near, Great lady, shall I bring her here?" See! Pharaoh's daughter answers, "Go."— No more the painter's art can show. He cannot make his figures move.— On the light wings of swiftest love The girl will fly to bring the mother To be the nurse, she'll bring no other. To her will Pharaoh's daughter say, "Take this child from me away: For wages nurse him. To my home At proper age this child may come. When to our palace he is brought, Wise masters shall for him be sought To train him up, befitting one I would protect as my own son. And Moses be a name unto him, Because I from the waters drew him."

DAVID

It is not always to the strong Victorious battle shall belong. This found Goliath huge and tall: Mightiest giant of them all, Who in the proud Philistian host Defied Israel with boast.

With loud voice Goliath said: "Hear, armed Israel, gathered, And in array against us set: Ye shall alone by me be met. For am not I a Philistine? What strength may be compar'd to mine?

"Chuse ye a man of greatest might: And if he conquer me in fight, Then we will all servants be, King of Israel, unto thee. But if I prove the victor, then Shall Saul and all his armed men Bend low beneath Philistian yoke." Day by day these words he spoke, Singly traversing the ground. But not an Israelite was found To combat man to man with him, Who such prodigious force of limb Display'd. Like to a weaver's beam The pond'rous spear he held did seem. In height six cubits he did pass, And he was arm'd all o'er in brass.

Him we will leave awhile—and speak Of one, the soft down on whose cheek Of tender youth the tokens bare. Ruddy he was and very fair. David, the son of Jesse he, Small-siz'd, yet beautiful to see. Three brothers had he in the band Of warriors under Saul's command; Himself at home did private keep In Bethlem's plains his father's sheep.

Jesse said to this his son: "David, to thy brothers run, Where in the camp they now abide, And learn what of them may betide. These presents for their captains take, And of their fare inquiries make." With joy the youth his sire obey'd.— David was no whit dismay'd When he arrived at the place Where he beheld the strength and face Of dread Goliath, and could hear The challenge. Of the people near Unmov'd he ask'd, what should be done To him who slew that boasting one, Whose words such mischiefs did forebode To th' armies of the living God?

"The king," they unto David say, "Most amply will that man repay, He and his father's house shall be Evermore in Israel free. With mighty wealth Saul will endow That man: and he has made a vow; Whoever takes Goliath's life, Shall have Saul's daughter for his wife."

His eldest brother, who had heard His question, was to anger stirr'd Against the youth: for (as he thought) Things out of his young reach he sought. Said he, "What mov'd thee to come here, To question warlike men? say, where And in whose care are those few sheep, That in the wilderness you keep? I know thy thoughts, how proud thou art: In the naughtiness of thy heart, Hoping a battle thou mayst see, Thou comest hither down to me."

Then answer'd Jesse's youngest son In these words: "What have I done? Is there not cause?" Some there which heard, And at the manner of his word Admir'd, report this to the king. By his command they David bring Into his presence. Fearless then, Before the king and his chief men, He shews his confident design To combat with the Philistine. Saul with wonder heard the youth, And thus address'd him: "Of a truth, No pow'r thy untried sinew hath To cope with this great man of Gath."

Lowly David bow'd his head, And with firm voice the stripling said: "Thy servant kept his father's sheep.— Rushing from a mountain steep There came a lion, and a bear, The firstlings of my flock to tear. Thy servant hath that lion kill'd, And kill'd that bear, when from the field Two young lambs by force they seiz'd. The Lord was mercifully pleas'd Me to deliver from the paw Of the fierce bear, and cruel jaw Of the strong lion. I shall slay Th' unrighteous Philistine this day, If God deliver him also To me." He ceas'd. The king said, "Go: Thy God, the God of Israel, be In the battle still with thee."

David departs, unarmed, save A staff in hand he chanc'd to have. Nothing to the fight he took, Save five smooth stones from out a brook; These in his shepherd's scrip he plac'd, That was fasten'd round his waist. With staff and sling alone he meets The armed giant, who him greets With nought but scorn. Looking askance On the fair ruddy countenance Of his young enemy—"Am I A dog, that thou com'st here to try Thy strength upon me with a staff—?" Goliath said with scornful laugh. "Thou com'st with sword, with spear, with shield, Yet thou to me this day must yield. The Lord of Hosts is on my side, Whose armies boastful thou'st defied. All nations of the earth shall hear He saveth not with shield and spear."

Thus David spake, and nigher went, Then chusing from his scrip, he sent Out of his slender sling a stone.— The giant utter'd fearful moan. The stone though small had pierced deep Into his forehead, endless sleep Giving Goliath—and thus died Of Philistines the strength and pride.

DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM

(Text of 1818)

David and his three captains bold Kept ambush once within a hold. It was in Adullam's cave, Nigh which no water they could have, Nor spring, nor running brook was near To quench the thirst that parch'd them there. Then David, king of Israel, Strait bethought him of a well, Which stood beside the city gate, At Bethlem; where, before his state Of kingly dignity, he had Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad; But now his fierce Philistine foe Encamp'd before it he does know. Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest, Those three bold captains he addrest, And wish'd that one to him would bring Some water from his native spring. His valiant captains instantly To execute his will did fly. The mighty Three the ranks broke through Of armed foes, and water drew For David, their beloved king, At his own sweet native spring. Back through their armed foes they haste, With the hard earn'd treasure graced. But when the good king David found What they had done, he on the ground The water pour'd. "Because," said he, "That it was at the jeopardy Of your three lives this thing ye did, That I should drink it, God forbid."



THREE POEMS NOT IN POETRY FOR CHILDREN

SUMMER FRIENDS

The Swallow is a summer bird; He in our chimneys, when the weather Is fine and warm, may then be heard Chirping his notes for weeks together.

Come there but one cold wintry day, Away will fly our guest the Swallow: And much like him we find the way Which many a gay young friend will follow.

In dreary days of snow and frost Closer to Man will cling the Sparrow: Old friends, although in life we're crost, Their hearts to us will never narrow.

Give me the bird—'give me the friend— Will sing in frost—will love in sorrow— Whate'er mischance to-day may send, Will greet me with his sight to-morrow.

A BIRTH-DAY THOUGHT

Can I, all gracious Providence! Can I deserve thy care: Ah! no; I've not the least pretence To bounties which I share.

Have I not been defended still From dangers and from death; Been safe preserv'd from ev'ry ill E'er since thou gav'st me breath?

I live once more to see the day That brought me first to light; Oh! teach my willing heart the way To take thy mercies right!

Tho' dazzling splendour, pomp, and show, My fortune has denied, Yet more than grandeur can bestow, Content hath well supplied.

I envy no one's birth or fame, Their titles, train, or dress; Nor has my pride e'er stretched its aim Beyond what I possess.

I ask and wish not to appear More beauteous, rich, or gay: Lord, make me wiser every year, And better every day.

THE BOY, THE MOTHER, AND THE BUTTERFLY

[1827]

Young William held the Butterfly in chase, And it was pretty to observe the race Betwixt the Fly and Child, who nigh had caught him But for a merry jest his Mother taught him. "My valiant Huntsman, fie!" she said, "for shame, You are too big a match for so small game, To catch the Hare, or nimble Squirrel try, Remember, William, He is BUT A FLY."

Not always is Humanity imprest By serious schooling; a light word or jest Will sometimes leave a moral sting behind When graver lessons vanish out of mind.



PRINCE DORUS

OR

FLATTERY PUT OUT OF COUNTENANCE

A POETICAL VERSION OF AN ANCIENT TALK

In days of yore, as Ancient Stories tell, A King in love with a great Princess fell. Long at her feet submiss the Monarch sigh'd, While she with stern repulse his suit denied. Yet was he form'd by birth to please the fair, Dress'd, danc'd, and courted with a Monarch's air; But Magic Spells her frozen breast had steel'd With stubborn pride, that knew not how to yield.

This to the King' a courteous Fairy told, And bade the Monarch in his suit be bold; For he that would the charming Princess wed, Had only on her cat's black tail to tread, When straight the Spell would vanish into air, And he enjoy for life the yielding fair.

He thank'd the Fairy for her kind advice.— Thought he, "If this be all, I'll not be nice; Rather than in my courtship I will fail I will to mince-meat tread Minon's black tail."

To the Princess's court repairing strait, He sought the cat that must decide his fate; But when he found her, how the creature stared! How her back bristled, and her great eyes glared! That [tail] which he so fondly hop'd his prize, Was swell'd by wrath to twice its usual size; And all her cattish gestures plainly spoke She thought the affair he came upon, no joke. With wary step the cautious King draws near, And slyly means to attack her in her rear; But when he thinks upon her tail to pounce, Whisk—off she skips—three yards upon a bounce— Again he tries, again his efforts fail— Minon's a witch—the deuce is in her tail—

The anxious chase for weeks the Monarch tried, Till courage fail'd, and hope within him died. A desperate suit 'twas useless to prefer, Or hope to catch a tail of quicksilver.— When on a day, beyond his hopes, he found Minon, his foe, asleep upon the ground; Her ample tail behind her lay outspread, Full to the eye, and tempting to the tread. The King with rapture the occasion bless'd. And with quick foot the fatal part he press'd. Loud squalls were heard, like howlings of a storm, And sad he gazed on Minon's altered form,— No more a cat, but chang'd into a man Of giant size, who frown'd, and thus began:

"Rash King, that dared with impious design To violate that tail, that once was mine; What though the spell be broke, and burst the charms, That kept the Princess from thy longing arms,— Not unrevenged shall thou my fury dare, For by that violated tail I swear, From your unhappy nuptials shall be born A Prince, whose Nose shall be thy subjects' scorn. Bless'd in his love thy son shall never be, Till he his foul deformity shall see, Till he with tears his blemish shall confess, Discern its odious length, and wish it less!"

This said, he vanish'd; and the King awhile Mused at his words, then answer'd with a smile "Give me a child in happy wedlock born, And let his Nose be made like a French horn; His knowledge of the fact I ne'er can doubt,— If he have eyes, or hands, he'll find it out."

So spake the King, self-flatter'd in his thought, Then with impatient step the Princess sought. His urgent suit no longer she withstands, But links with him in Hymen's knot her hands.

Almost as soon a widow as a bride, Within a year the King her husband died; And shortly after he was dead and gone, She was deliver'd of a little son, The prettiest babe, with lips as red as rose, And eyes like little stars—but such a nose— The tender Mother fondly took the boy Into her arms, and would have kiss'd her joy; His luckless nose forbade the fond embrace— He thrust the hideous feature in her face.

Then all her Maids of Honour tried in turn, And for a Prince's kiss in envy burn; By sad experience taught, their hopes they miss'd, And mourn'd a Prince that never could be kiss'd.

In silent tears the Queen confess'd her grief, Till kindest Flattery came to her relief. Her maids, as each one takes him in her arms, Expatiate freely o'er his world of charms— His eyes, lips, mouth—his forehead was divine— And for the nose—they called it Aquiline— Declared that Caesar, who the world subdued, Had such a one—just of that longitude— That Kings like him compelled folks to adore them, And drove the short-nos'd sons of men before them— That length of nose portended length of days, And was a great advantage many ways— To mourn the gifts of Providence was wrong— Besides, the Nose was not so very long.—

These arguments in part her grief redrest, A mother's partial fondness did the rest; And Time, that all things reconciles by use, Did in her notions such a change produce. That, as she views her babe, with favour blind, She thinks him handsomest of human kind.

Meantime in spite of his disfigured face, Dorus (for so he's call'd) grew up apace; In fair proportion all his features rose, Save that most prominent of all—his Nose. That Nose, which in the infant could annoy, Was grown a perfect nuisance in the boy. Whene'er he walk'd, his Handle went before, Long as the snout of Ferret, or Wild Boar; Or like the Staff, with which on holy day The solemn Parish Beadle clears the way.

But from their cradle to their latest year, How seldom Truth can reach a Prince's ear! To keep th' unwelcome knowledge out of view, His lesson well each flattering Courtier knew; The hoary Tutor, and the wily Page, Unmeet confederates! dupe his tender age. They taught him that whate'er vain mortals boast— Strength, Courage, Wisdom—all they value most— Whate'er on human life distinction throws— Was all comprised—in what?—a length of nose! Ev'n Virtue's self (by some suppos'd chief merit) In short-nosed folks was only want of spirit.

While doctrines such as these his guides instill'd, His Palace was with long-nosed people fill'd; At Court, whoever ventured to appear With a short nose, was treated with a sneer. Each courtier's wife, that with a babe is blest, Moulds its young nose betimes; and does her best, By pulls, and hauls, and twists, and lugs and pinches, To stretch it to the standard of the Prince's.

Dup'd by these arts, Dorus to manhood rose, Nor dream'd of aught more comely than his Nose, Till Love, whose pow'r ev'n Princes have confest, Claim'd the soft empire o'er his youthful breast. Fair Claribel was she who caused his care; A neighb'ring Monarch's daughter, and sole heir. For beauteous Claribel his bosom burn'd; The beauteous Claribel his flame return'd; Deign'd with kind words his passion to approve, Met his soft vows, and yielded love for love. If in her mind some female pangs arose At sight (and who can blame her?) of his Nose. Affection made her willing to be blind; She loved him for the beauties of his mind; And in his lustre, and his royal race, Contented sunk—one feature of his face.

Blooming to sight, and lovely to behold, Herself was cast in Beauty's richest mould; Sweet female majesty her person deck'd, Her face an angel's—save for one defect— Wise Nature, who to Dorus over kind, A length of nose too liberal had assign'd, As if with us poor mortals to make sport, Had giv'n to Claribel a nose too short: But turned up with a sort of modest grace; It took not much of beauty from her face; And subtle Courtiers, who their Prince's mind Still watch'd, and turned about with every wind, Assur'd the Prince, that though man's beauty owes Its charm to a majestic length of nose, The excellence of Woman (softer creature) Consisted in the shortness of that feature. Few arguments were wanted to convince The already more than half persuaded Prince; Truths, which we hate, with slowness we receive, But what we wish to credit, soon believe.

The Princess's affections being gain'd, What but her Sire's approval now remain'd? Ambassadors with solemn pomp are sent To win the aged Monarch to consent (Seeing their States already were allied) That Dorus might have Claribel to bride. Her Royal Sire, who wisely understood The match propos'd was for both kingdoms' good, Gave his consent; and gentle Claribel With weeping bids her Father's court farewell.

With gallant pomp, and numerous array, Dorus went forth to meet her on her way; But when the Princely pair of lovers met, Their hearts on mutual gratulations set, Sudden the Enchanter from the ground arose, (The same who prophesied the Prince's nose) And with rude grasp, unconscious of her charms, Snatch'd up the lovely Princess in his arms, Then bore her out of reach of human eyes, Up in the pathless regions of the skies.

Bereft of her that was his only care, Dorus resign'd his soul to wild despair; Resolv'd to leave the land that gave him birth, And seek fair Claribel throughout the earth. Mounting his horse, he gives the beast the reins, And wanders lonely through the desert plains; With fearless heart the savage heath explores, Where the wolf prowls, and where the tiger roars, Nor wolf, nor tiger, dare his way oppose; The wildest creatures see, and shun, his NOSE. Ev'n lions fear! the elephant alone Surveys with pride a trunk so like his own. At length he to a shady forest came, Where in a cavern lived an aged dame; A reverend Fairy, on whose silver head A hundred years their downy snows had shed. Here ent'ring in, the Mistress of the place Bespoke him welcome with a cheerful grace, Fetch'd forth her dainties, spread her social board With all the Store her dwelling could afford. The Prince with toil and hunger sore opprest, Gladly accepts, and deigns to be her guest. But when the first civilities were paid, The dishes rang'd, and Grace in order said; The Fairy, who had leisure now to view Her guest more closely, from her pocket drew Her spectacles, and wip'd them from the dust, Then on her nose endeavour'd to adjust; With difficulty she could find a place To hang them on in her unshapely face; For if the Princess's was somewhat small, This Fairy scarce had any nose at all. But when by help of spectacles the Crone Discern'd a Nose so different from her own, What peals of laughter shook her aged sides! While with sharp jests the Prince she thus derides.

FAIRY

"Welcome, great Prince of Noses, to my cell; 'Tis a poor place,—but thus we Fairies dwell. Pray, let me ask you, if from far you come— And don't you sometimes find it cumbersome?"

PRINCE

"Find what?"

FAIRY

"Your Nose—."

PRINCE

"My Nose, Ma'am!"

FAIRY

"No offence.— The King your Father was a man of sense, A handsome man (but lived not to be old) And had a Nose cast in the common mould. Ev'n I myself, that now with age am grey, Was thought to have some beauty in my day, And am the Daughter of a King. Your sire In this poor face saw something to admire— And I to shew my gratitude made shift— Have stood his friend—and help'd him at a lift— 'Twas I that, when his hopes began to fail, Shew'd him the spell that lurk'd in Minon's tail— Perhaps you have heard—but come, Sir, you don't eat— That Nose of yours requires both wine and meat— Fall to, and welcome, without more ado— You see your fare—what shall I help you to? This dish the tongues of nightingales contains; This, eyes of peacocks; and that, linnets' brains; That next you is a Bird of Paradise— We fairies in our food are somewhat nice.— And pray, Sir, while your hunger is supplied, Do lean your Nose a little on one side; The shadow, which it casts upon the meat, Darkens my plate, I see not what I eat "—

The Prince on dainty after dainty feeding, Felt inly shock'd at the old Fairy's breeding; And held it want of manners in the Dame, And did her country education blame. One thing he only wonder'd at,—what she So very comic in his nose could see. Hers, it must be confest, was somewhat short, And time and shrinking age accounted for't; But for his own, thank heaven, he could not tell That it was ever thought remarkable; A decent nose, of reasonable size, And handsome thought, rather than otherwise. But that which most of all his wonder paid, Was to observe the Fairy's waiting Maid; How at each word the aged Dame let fall She courtsied low, and smil'd assent to all; But chiefly when the rev'rend Grannam told Of conquests, which her beauty made of old.— He smiled to see how Flattery sway'd the Dame, Nor knew himself was open to the same! He finds her raillery now increase so fast, That making hasty end of his repast, Glad to escape her tongue, he bids farewell To the old Fairy, and her friendly cell.

But his kind Hostess, who had vainly tried The force of ridicule to cure his pride, Fertile in plans, a surer method chose, To make him see the error of his nose; For till he view'd that feature with remorse, The Enchanter's direful spell must be in force.

Midway the road by which the Prince must pass, She rais'd by magic art a House of Glass; No mason's hand appear'd, nor work of wood; Compact of glass the wondrous fabric stood. Its stately pillars, glittering in the sun, Conspicuous from afar, like silver, shone. Here, snatch'd and rescued from th' Enchanter's might, She placed the beauteous Claribel in sight. The admiring Prince the chrystal dome survey'd, And sought access unto his lovely Maid; But, strange to tell, in all that mansion's bound, Nor door, nor casement, was there to be found. Enrag'd, he took up massy stones, and flung With such a force, that all the palace rung; But made no more impression on the glass, Than if the solid structure had been brass. To comfort his despair, the lovely maid Her snowy hand against her window laid; But when with eager haste he thought to kiss, His Nose stood out, and robb'd him of the bliss. Thrice he essay'd th' impracticable feat; The window and his lips can never meet.

The painful Truth, which Flattery long conceal'd, Rush'd on his mind, and "O!" he cried, "I yield; Wisest of Fairies, thou wert right, I wrong— I own, I own, I have a Nose too long."

The frank confession was no sooner spoke, But into shivers all the palace broke, His Nose of monstrous length, to his surprise Shrunk to the limits of a common size; And Claribel with joy her Lover view'd, Now grown as beautiful as he was good. The aged Fairy in their presence stands, Confirms their mutual vows, and joins their hands. The Prince with rapture hails the happy hour, That rescued him from self-delusion's power; And trains of blessings crown the future life Of Dorus, and of Claribel, his wife.



NOTES

CHARLES LAMB AND BOOKS FOR CHILDREN

Charles Lamb's activities as a writer for children seem to have begun and ended in the service of Godwin. The earliest effort in this direction of which we have any knowledge is The King and Queen of Hearts, 1805, and the latest Prince Dorus, 1810 or 1811, unless we count Beauty and the Beast, possibly 1811, which in my opinion he did not write.

Lamb first met William Godwin (1756-1836), the philosopher, probably through the instrumentality of their mutual friend Thomas Holcroft, not long after Gillray had satirised Lamb and Lloyd, in his plate in the first number of The Anti-Jacobin Review and Magazine, August, 1798, as a frog and a toad, seated in the vicinity of Coleridge and Southey and reading together a volume labelled "Blank Verse, by Toad and Frog." "Pray, Mr. Lamb," said Godwin when he first made Lamb's acquaintance, "are you toad or frog?" It was feared that trouble might ensue, but Lamb and Godwin were found the next morning at breakfast together and they became good, though never very intimate, friends.

Godwin, who had been for a while a minister at Ware, in Hertfordshire, came to London in 1779, and took up literature as a profession seriously in 1783. His Political Justice was published in 1793, Caleb Williams in 1794, and St. Leon in 1799. After loving at a distance Mrs. Opie and Mrs. Inchbald, Godwin married Mary Wollstonecraft in 1797. Their daughter afterwards became Mrs. Shelley, the wife of the poet. Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin died in the year of her marriage, and in 1801 Godwin married again, a Mrs. Clairmont, a widow. Lamb detested her. None the less it was she who took to publishing and who incited him and his sister to write the charming children's books in this volume.

Lamb helped Godwin with other literary ventures before the publishing business was started. In 1800 he wrote an epilogue to his tragedy of "Antonio" (see the essay in Vol. II., "The Old Actors," for a description of the luckless first night), and he advised him in the composition of "Faulkener," another tragedy, which failed in 1807 and which also had a prologue by Lamb. And a letter is extant showing Lamb toiling at a review of Godwin's Chaucer in 1803, but the review itself is not forthcoming.

The publishing business was started in 1805 on Mrs. Godwin's initiative. At first, owing to the undesirability of connecting the name of a political and moral firebrand like Godwin with books for children, it was arranged that the business, which was in Hanway Street, Oxford Street, should bear the name of the manager, Thomas Hodgkins, while the books contributed by Godwin were to be signed Edward Baldwin. In 1806, however, Mrs. Godwin opened a shop at 41 Skinner Street, Snow Hill (now demolished), and published in her own name as M.J. Godwin & Co., at The Children's Library.

For her the Lambs wrote The King and Queen of Hearts (by Charles Lamb), 1805; Tales from Shakespear, 1807; The Adventures of Ulysses (by Charles Lamb), 1808; Mrs. Leicester's School and Poetry for Children, 1809; and Prince Dorus (by Charles Lamb), 1811. Mrs. Godwin translated tales from the French, Godwin contributed Baldwin's Fables, Baldwin's Pantheon, and histories of Greece, England and Rome, and Hazlitt wrote an English Grammar. The principal illustrator to the firm was William Mulready.

Although Lamb had the most cordial disliking for Mrs. Godwin, he always stood by his old friend her husband. Between 1811 and 1821 the two men seem to have had little to do with each other; but in 1822 Lamb came to Godwin's assistance to much purpose. The title to Godwin's house in Skinner Street was successfully contested in that year, and Godwin became a bankrupt. A fund was therefore set on foot for him by Lamb and others, Lamb's own contribution being L50. Godwin, however, never rightly rallied, and thenceforward lived very quietly, wrote the History of the Commonwealth and Lives of the Necromancers, and died in 1836. Mrs. Godwin survived him until 1841.

Knowing what we do—from Dowden's Shelley and other sources—it is not possible greatly to admire Godwin's character, nor is the second Mrs. Godwin a subject for enthusiasm; but the part played by them in the Lambs' literary life was extremely valuable. Charles Lamb had, it is true, other stimulus, and without his work for children, sweet though it is, his name would still be a household word; but Mary Lamb might, but for the Godwins, have gone almost silent to the grave. Her writings, with their sweet gravity and tender simplicity, were called forth wholly by the Bad Baby, as Lamb called Mrs. Godwin.

Lamb's views on the literature of the nursery had crystallised long before he began to write children's books himself. In a letter to Coleridge, October 23,1802, he had said:—

"'Goody Two Shoes' is almost out of print. Mrs. Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at Newberry's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B.'s and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs. Barbauld's books convey, it seems, must come to a child in the shape of knowledge, and his empty noddle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learnt, that a horse is an animal, and Billy is better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales, which made the child a man, while all the while he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? Think what you would have been now, if, instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!"

Hence when the time came Lamb was all ready with a nursery method of his own.

* * * * *

Page 1. TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR.

Mary Lamb was asked to write the Tales from Shakespear, with help from her brother, in the spring of 1806 or the winter of 1805. I have seen the statement that this was at the instigation of Hazlitt, but Lamb does not say so. The first mention of the work is in Lamb's letter to Manning, May 10, 1806:—

"She [Mary] says you saw her writings about the other day, and she wishes you should know what they are. She is doing for Godwin's bookseller twenty of Shakspeare's plays, to be made into children's tales. Six are already done by her, to wit, 'The Tempest,' 'Winter's Tale,' 'Midsummer Night,' 'Much Ado,' 'Two Gentlemen of Verona,' and 'Cymbeline'; and the 'Merchant of Venice' is in forwardness. I have done 'Othello' and 'Macbeth,' and mean to do all the tragedies. I think it will be popular among the little people, besides money. It's to bring in sixty guineas. Mary has done them capitally, I think, you'd think. These are the humble amusements we propose, while you are gone to plant the cross of Christ among barbarous pagan anthropophagi. Quam homo homini praestat! but then, perhaps, you'll get murdered, and we shall die in our beds with a fair literary reputation."

Mary Lamb's letters to Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Sarah Hazlitt), continue the story. This is on June 2, 1806:—

My Tales are to be published in separate story-books; I mean, in single stories, like the children's little shilling books. I cannot send you them in Manuscript, because they are all in the Godwins' hands; but one will be published very soon, and then you shall have it all in print. I go on very well, and have no doubt but I shall always be able to hit upon some such kind of job to keep going on. I think I shall get fifty pounds a year at the lowest calculation; but as I have not yet seen any money of my own earning, for we do not expect to be paid till Christmas, I do not feel the good fortune, that has so unexpectedly befallen me, half so much as I ought to do. But another year, no doubt, I shall perceive it.

When I write again, you will hear tidings of the farce, for Charles is to go in a few days to the Managers to inquire about it. But that must now be a next-year's business too, even if it does succeed; so it's all looking forward, and no prospect of present gain. But that's better than no hopes at all, either for present or future times.

Charles has written Macbeth, Othello, King Lear, and has begun Hamlet; you would like to see us, as we often sit writing on one table (but not on one cushion sitting), like Hermia and Helena in the Midsummer Night's Dream; or, rather, like an old literary Darby and Joan: I taking snuff; and he groaning all the while, and saying he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he has finished, and then he finds out he has made something of it....

Martin [Burney] has just been here. My Tales (again) and Charles's Farce has made the boy mad to turn Author; and he has written a Farce, and he has made the Winter's Tale into a story; but what Charles says of himself is really true of Martin, for he can make nothing at all of it; and I have been talking very eloquently this morning, to convince him that nobody can write farces, &c., under thirty years of age. And so I suppose he will go home and new model his farce.

A little later, June 26, Lamb writes to Wordsworth:—

"Mary is just stuck fast in All's Well that Ends Well. She complains of having to set forth so many female characters in boy's clothes. She begins to think Shakspear must have wanted Imagination. I to encourage her, for she often faints in the prosecution of her great work, flatter her with telling how well such and such a play is done. But she is stuck fast and I have been obliged to promise to assist her."

Then we have Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart again (early in July, 1806): "I am in good spirits just at this present time, for Charles has been reading over the Tale I told you plagued me so much, and he thinks it one of the very best: it is 'All's Well that Ends Well.'"

The work was finished in the autumn of 1806 and published at the end of the year, dated 1807. Lamb sent Wordsworth a copy on January 29, 1807, with the following letter:—

"We have book'd off from Swan and Two Necks, Lad Lane, this day (per Coach) the Tales from Shakespear. You will forgive the plates, when I tell you they were left to the direction of Godwin, who left the choice of subjects to the bad baby, who from mischief (I suppose) has chosen one from damn'd beastly vulgarity (vide 'Merch. Venice'), where no atom of authority was in the tale to justify it—to another has given a name which exists not in the tale, Nic Bottom, and which she thought would be funny, though in this I suspect his hand, for I guess her reading does not reach far enough to know Bottom's Christian name—and one of Hamlet, and Grave digging, a scene which is not hinted at in the story, and you might as well have put King Canute the Great reproving his courtiers—the rest are Giants and Giantesses. Suffice it, to save our taste and damn our folly, that we left it all to a friend W.G. who in the first place cheated me into putting a name to them, which I did not mean, but do not repent, and then wrote a puff about their simplicity, &c., to go with the advertisement as in my name! Enough of this egregious dupery. I will try to abstract the load of teazing circumstances from the Stories and tell you that I am answerable for Lear, Macbeth, Timon, Romeo, Hamlet, Othello, for occasionally a tail piece or correction of grammar, for none of the cuts and all of the spelling. The rest is my Sister's.—We think Pericles of hers the best, and Othello of mine—but I hope all have some good. As You Like It, we like least.

"So much, only begging you to tear out the cuts and give them to Johnny, as 'Mrs. Godwin's fancy'.

"C.L.

"Our love to all.

"I had almost forgot, My part of the Preface begins in the middle of a sentence, in last but one page, after a colon, thus:—

":—which if they be happily so done, &c. (see page 2, line 7 from foot).

The former part hath a more feminine turn and does hold me up something as an instructor to young ladies: but upon my modesty's honour I wrote it not.

"Godwin told my Sister that the Baby chose the subjects: a fact in taste."

This letter not only tells us how the preface was written—the first part, I take it, by William Godwin—but what Lamb himself thought of the pictures; which I reproduce in the large edition. It is customary to attribute the designs to Mulready and the engraving to William Blake.

I have set up the Tales from the second edition, 1809, because it embodies certain corrections and was probably the last edition in which the Lambs took any interest. The changes of word are few. I note the more important; Page 5, line 1, "recollection" was "remembrance" in the first edition; page 10, line 27, "voracious" was "ugly" in the first edition; page 15, line 21, "vessel" was "churn"; page 42, line 30, "continued" was in the first edition "remained"; page 108, foot, "But she being a woman" had run in the first edition, "But she being a bad ambitious woman." I leave other minute differences to the Bibliographer.

The second edition was issued in two forms: one similar to the first edition and one with only frontispiece, a portrait of Shakespear, and the following foreword from the pen, I imagine, of Mr. Godwin:—

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION

The Proprietors of this work willingly pay obedience to the voice of the public. It has been the general sentiment, that the style in which these Tales are written, is not so precisely adapted for the amusement of mere children, as for an acceptable and improving present to young ladies advancing to the state of womanhood. They therefore now offer to the public an edition prepared with suitable elegance. In the former impression they gave twenty prints, illustrative of the twenty tales which compose these volumes, for they knew that it was a grievous thing and a disappointment to a child, to find some tales without the recommendation of a print, which the others possessed. The prints were therefore made from spirited designs, but did not pretend to high finishing in the execution. To this edition they have annexed merely a beautiful head of our immortal Dramatist, from a much admired painting by Zoust.—They are satisfied that every reader of taste will thank them for not suppressing the former Preface, though not exactly applicable on the present occasion.

N.B.—A few copies have been worked off on the plan of the former impression, for the use of those who rather coincide in the original conception of the writer, than in the opinion above stated.

Lamb, we may be sure, had no hand in this manifesto, but whatever protest he may have made was unsuccessful. It reappears in the third edition, while the preface there has the general alteration of the first person singular to the first person plural: "our young readers" for "my young readers," and so forth. But this was probably Godwinian work.

The Godwins also issued some or all of the Tales separately at sixpence each (the two ordinary volumes cost eight shillings) with three plates to each, of a different design from those in the two-volume edition. These little books are exceedingly rare, but copies have been discovered both plain and coloured. The plates are attributed to Blake.

The Lambs' Tales from Shakespear were not, Mr. Bertram Dobell has pointed out, the first experiment of the kind. In 1783 was published in Paris Contes Moraux, Amusans et Instructifs, a l'usage de la Jeunesse tires des Tragedies de Shakespear. Par M. Perrin. The Lambs did not, however, borrow anything from M. Perrin, even if they were aware of his work. The Tales are peculiarly their own.

The Tales from Shakespear are, and probably will continue to be, the most widely distributed of all the Lambs' work. In England it may be that Elia has had as many readers; but abroad the Tales from Shakespear easily lead. In the British Museum catalogue I find translations in French, German, Swedish, Spanish, and Polish. (No complete translation of Elia into any language is known, not even in French, although a selection of the essays will be found at the end of Depret's monograph, De L'Humeur Litteraire en Angleterre, 1877.) In England almost every Christmas brings a new edition of the Tales and often an imitation.

Although Mary Lamb was the true author of the book, as of Mrs. Leicester's School and of Poetry for Children, her share being much greater than her brother's in all of these, she was not until many years later associated publicly with any of them. The Tales were attributed to Charles Lamb, presumably against his wish, as we see from a sentence in the letter to Wordsworth quoted above, and the other two books had no name attached to them at all. Why Mary Lamb preserved such strict anonymity we do not now know; but it was probably from a natural shrinking from any kind of publicity after the unhappy publicity which she had once gained by her misfortune.

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Page 240. THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES.

Lamb must have been as busy in the years 1806-1808 as in any of his life; for he then not only had his India House work, but wrote his share of the Tales from Shakespear, Mrs. Leicester's School and Poetry for Children, wrote all of The Adventures of Ulysses, and finally prepared his Dramatic Specimens. Moreover in 1806 he had the harassment of the alterations and impending production of "Mr. H."

On February 26, 1808, he tells Manning that he has just finished The Adventures of Ulysses and the Specimens, describing The Adventures of Ulysses as "intended to be an introduction to the reading of Telemachus! it is done out of the Odyssey, not from the Greek. I would not mislead you: nor yet from Pope's Odyssey, but from an older translation of one Chapman. The 'Shakspeare Tales' suggested the doing it." Many years after Lamb wrote to Barton (August 10, 1827): "Did you ever read my 'Adventures of Ulysses,' founded on Chapman's old translation of it? for children or men. Ch. is divine, and my abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divinity."

Chapman's Homer was the folio which Leigh Hunt tells us he once saw Lamb kiss.

Writing to Coleridge on October 23, 1802, Lamb says:—

"I have just finished Chapman's Homer. Did you ever read it?—it has most the continuous power of interesting you all along, like a rapid original, of any; and in the uncommon excellence of the more finished parts goes beyond Fairfax or any of 'em. The metre is fourteen syllables, and capable of all sweetness and grandeur. Cowper's ponderous blank verse detains you every step with some heavy Miltonism; Chapman gallops off with you his own free pace....

"I will tell you more about Chapman and his peculiarities in my next. I am much interested in him."

A brief correspondence which passed between Godwin and Lamb just before the publication of The Adventures of Ulysses may be given here.

WILLIAM GODWIN TO CHARLES LAMB

Skinner Street, March 10, 1808.

Dear Lamb,—I address you with all humility, because I know you to be tenax propositi. Hear me, I entreat you, with patience.

It is strange with what different feelings an author and a bookseller looks at the same manuscript. I know this by experience: I was an author, I am a bookseller. The author thinks what will conduce to his honour: the bookseller what will cause his commodities to sell.

You, or some other wise man, I have heard to say, It is children that read children's books, when they are read, but it is parents that choose them. The critical thought of the tradesman put itself therefore into the place of the parent, and what the parent will condemn.

We live in squeamish days. Amid the beauties of your manuscript, of which no man can think more highly than I do, what will the squeamish say to such expressions as these,—'devoured their limbs, yet warm and trembling, lapping the blood,' page 10. Or to the giant's vomit, page 14; or to the minute and shocking description of the extinguishing the giant's eye in the page following. You, I daresay, have no formed plan of excluding the female sex from among your readers, and I, as a bookseller, must consider that if you have you exclude one half of the human species.

Nothing is more easy than to modify these things if you please, and nothing, I think, is more indispensable.

Give me, as soon as possible, your thoughts on the matter.

I should also like a preface. Half our customers know not Homer, or know him only as you or I know the lost authors of antiquity. What can be more proper than to mention one or two of those obvious recommendations of his works, which must lead every human creature to desire a nearer acquaintance.—Believe me, ever faithfully yours,

W. GODWIN.

CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM GODWIN

March 11, 1808.

Dear Godwin,—The giant's vomit was perfectly nauseous, and I am glad you pointed it out. I have removed the objection. To the other passages I can find no other objection but what you may bring to numberless passages besides, such as of Scylla snatching up the six men, etc.,—that is to say, they are lively images of shocking things. If you want a book, which is not occasionally to shock, you should not have thought of a tale which was so full of anthropophagi and wonders. I cannot alter these things without enervating the Book, and I will not alter them if the penalty should be that you and all the London booksellers should refuse it. But speaking as author to author, I must say that I think the terrible in those two passages seems to me so much to preponderate over the nauseous, as to make them rather fine than disgusting. Who is to read them, I don't know: who is it that reads Tales of Terror and Mysteries of Udolpho? Such things sell. I only say that I will not consent to alter such passages, which I know to be some of the best in the book. As an author I say to you, an author, Touch not my work. As to a bookseller I say, Take the work such as it is, or refuse it. You are as free to refuse it as when we first talked of it. As to a friend I say, Don't plague yourself and me with nonsensical objections. I assure you I will not alter one more word.

As the reader will see, Lamb made only the one alteration; nor did he add a preface recommending the works of Homer.

I have set up The Adventures of Ulysses from the second edition, 1819, because it probably contains Lamb's final revision of the text. The punctuation differs considerably from that of the first edition, but there are, I think, only four changes of words. On page 251, line 34, "and" was inserted before "snout"; on page 257, line g, "does" was substituted for "do"; on page 266, line 7 from foot, "over" was substituted for "above"; and on page 276, line 5 from foot, "it" was inserted after "keep."

The suggestion has been made that, since Lamb states in the preface that this work was designed as a supplement to The Adventures of Telemachus, he was also the author of one of the versions of Fenelon's popular tale. But this, I think, has no foundation in fact. We know from Lamb's letter to Godwin that the impulse to write The Adventures of Ulysses came from Godwin, and it was natural that he, a bookseller, should wish to associate this new venture with a volume so well known and so acceptable as the Telemachus. Now and then in the story Lamb deliberately refers to Fenelon's work, as when in the fourth chapter he says:—

"It were useless to describe over again what has been so well told already; or to relate those soft arts of courtship which the goddess used to detain Ulysses; the same in kind which she afterwards practised upon his less wary son, whom Minerva, in the shape of Mentor, hardly preserved from her snares when they came to the Delightful Island together in search of the scarce departed Ulysses."

This is drawn not from Chapman or Homer, but from the Archbishop of Cambrai. Lamb introduced it in accordance with the first sentence of his preface.

Lamb adapted Chapman very freely. For the material in Chapter I. we must go to Chapman, Books IX. and X.; for Chapter II., to Books X. and XL; for Chapter III., to Book XII.; for Chapter IV., to the early books; for Chapters V., VI. and VII., to Chapman, Books V.-IX. and XIII.; for Chapter VIII., to Books XIII. and XIV.; and for Chapter IX. to the end, to Chapman, Book XVI. and onwards. It must be agreed that Lamb performed a difficult task with great skill and success, especially when we consider his want of interest, frequently admitted, in stories. But the pleasure of adding dignity and sweetness to the character of Ulysses seems to have been very considerable as he worked (or so I imagine), and he made practically a new thing, a very persuasive blend of ancient and modern. The book has not been so popular as the Tales from Shakespear, but it has, I think, finer literary merits and may perhaps be read by older intellects with more satisfaction.

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Page 316. MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL.

This charming little book was published by Mrs. Godwin at the end of 1808, dated 1809, with no author's name attached. Besides, however, ample internal evidence as to its authorship, there are many references to it in Lamb's letters. Why it was issued anonymously we cannot now learn; probably, as I have suggested, from Mary Lamb's unwillingness to have her name in print. The Tales from Shakespear, it will be remembered, were described always as being by Charles Lamb, although Mary did far more than half, and it was at the outset her book. Her share of Mrs. Leicester's School was equally great, and a sentence in one of her letters to Sarah Stoddart suggests that it was hers in inception also: "I have been busy making waistcoats, and plotting new work to succeed the Tales." Possibly it was because his share in the book was so small that Lamb refused to sign Mrs. Leicester's School as he had the Tales from Shakespear; possibly he had other reasons, the title-page of his Dramatic Specimens being one of them. When, a little while afterwards, the Poetry for Children was published, it was stated to be "by the author of Mrs. Leicester's School," while several of the poems when reprinted by Mylius (see notes below) were signed Mrs. Leicester. Thus, Mary Lamb's last chance of seeing her name on a title-page vanished. But we may feel confident that her own wishes were consulted in the matter.

Lamb's share in Mrs. Leicester's School we know from a letter to Bernard Barton (January 23, 1824): "My Sister's part in the Leicester School (about two thirds) was purely her own; as it was (to the same quantity) in the Shakspeare Tales which bear my name. I wrote only the Witch Aunt, the first going to Church, and the final Story, about a little Indian girl in a ship."

The little book was well received, and was quietly popular for some years, running into eight editions by 1823. I imagine, however, that it was little known between 1830 and the end of the century. Latterly there has been a revival in interest. One or two critics have touched rapturous heights in their praise. Landor wrote to Crabb Robinson in April, 1831:—

It is now several days since I read the book you recommended to me, "Mrs. Leicester's School;" and I feel as if I owed you a debt in deferring to thank you for many hours of exquisite delight. Never have I read anything in prose so many times over within so short a space of time as "The Father's Wedding-day." Most people, I understand, prefer the first tale—in truth a very admirable one—but others could have written it. Show me the man or woman, modern or ancient, who could have written this one sentence: "When I was dressed in my new frock, I wished poor mamma was alive, to see how fine I was on papa's wedding day; and I ran to my favourite station at her bedroom door." How natural, in a little girl, is this incongruity—this impossibility! Richardson would have given his "Clarissa," and Rousseau his "Heloise" to have imagined it. A fresh source of the pathetic bursts out before us, and not a bitter one. If your Germans can show us anything comparable to what I have transcribed, I would almost undergo a year's gargle of their language for it. The story is admirable throughout—incomparable, inimitable....

Landor wrote to Lady Blessington to the same effect. Praise of this book is so pleasant to read that I quote his second letter too:—

One of her tales is, with the sole exception of the Bride of Lammermoor, the most beautiful tale in prose composition in any language, ancient or modern. A young girl has lost her mother, the father marries again, and marries a friend of his former wife. The child is ill reconciled to it, but being dressed in new clothes for the marriage, she runs up to her mother's chamber, filled with the idea how happy that dear mother would be at seeing her in all her glory—not reflecting, poor soul! that it was only by her mother's death that she appeared in it. How natural, how novel is all this! Did you ever imagine that a fresh source of the pathetic would burst forth before us in this trodden and hardened world? I never did, and when I found myself upon it, I pressed my temples with both hands, and tears ran down to my elbows.

And Coleridge remarked to Allsop:—

It at once soothes and amuses me to think—nay, to know—that the time will come when this little volume of my dear and well-nigh oldest friend, Mary Lamb, will be not only enjoyed but acknowledged as a rich jewel in the treasury of our permanent English literature; and I cannot help running over in my mind the long list of celebrated writers, astonishing geniuses, Novels, Romances, Poems, Histories and dense Political Economy quartos which, compared with Mrs. Leicester's School, will be remembered as often and prized as highly as Wilkie's and Glover's Epics and Lord Bolingbroke's Philosophies compared with Robinson Crusoe.

I have set up the book from the second edition, 1809, because the Lambs' final text is probably to be found there. Although certain additional minor differences were made in the eighth and ninth editions, 1821 and 1825, I think it very unlikely that they were made by Mary or Charles Lamb. The principal alteration between the second and first editions is page 317, line 6, "your eyes were red with weeping," for "The traces of tears might still be seen on your cheeks." The other differences are very slight, mostly being in punctuation, but there are also a few changes of word. I leave these, however, to the Bibliographer.

The eighth edition was furnished with the following preface; which, though it is signed "The Author," is not, I think, from either Mary or Charles Lamb's pen. I rather suspect Mrs. Godwin.

"Tell me a story, Mamma," was almost the first request my own child made me when she understood the meaning of a story, and I soon discovered I had no easier method of managing a very difficult temper than by adapting my stories to the errors she committed, or the good qualities she announced; but as I found it a very difficult and troublesome task to repeat the same story precisely the same each time, and as a sensible child, even at so early a period as three years of age, will remember where the narrator forgets, and never fail to detect the mistakes of the second repetition, I came to the resolution to print a small collection of stories for very young children, composed merely of circumstances incidental to their age.

The great error of many juvenile books is their deviation from truth; and as so much is absolutely necessary to be taught, why add to the labour by impressing false ideas on the mind of an infant, and thus lose the opportunity of making amusement the vehicle to convey instruction? A Mother only is, perhaps, capable of adapting stories to the capacities of very young Children; for a Mother only watches the unfolding of their ideas, and the bent of their dispositions. If one good Mother finds these tales of service to her in her arduous but pleasing task, my purpose will be answered.

It is stated that a French version of Mrs. Leicester's School, under the title Les Jeunes Pensionnaires, was published. I have seen, however, only Petits Conies a l'usage de la Feunesse traduits de l'Anglais par M'me M. D'Avot, 1823, which contains "Elisabeth Villiers, ou l'Oncle marin," "Charlotte Wilmot," "Marguerite Green, ou la jeune Mahometane," and "Arabella Hardy, ou la Traversee."

Mrs. Leicester's School calls for little annotation, except for the purpose of relating the stories to the lives of their writers; for it contains some very valuable autobiographical matter. But there are a few minor points too.

Page 316. Dedication.

In the choice of Amwell School as the name of Mrs. Leicester's establishment Mary (or Charles) returned after an inveterate Lamb habit to the old Hertfordshire days. Amwell, where the New River rises, is only a few miles from Widford and Blakesware. The signature to the dedication, "M.B.," may have been a little joke for the amusement of Martin Burney, who had taken such interest in the progress of the Tales from Shakespear and was in those days a special favourite with Mary Lamb.

Page 319. I.—Elizabeth Villiers. "The Sailor Uncle."

By Mary Lamb. The story of the little girl learning her letters from her mother's grave may have belonged to Widford churchyard; otherwise there seems to be no personal memory here.

Page 328. II.—Louisa Manners. "The Farm House."

By Mary Lamb. Much of the description of the farm and country is probably from memory of the old days at Mackery End, where we know Mary Lamb to have gone with her little brother Charles some time about 1780, and perhaps herself earlier. It is, however, possible that Blakesware is meant, since Mary Lamb speaks of the grandmother: Mrs. Bruton of Mackery End was her great aunt. One feels that the grandmother's sorrow at not being remembered (on page 329) is from life; and also the episode with Will Tasker (on the same page), and the description (and probably the name) of Old Spot, the shepherd, on page 333.

Page 334. III.—Ann Withers. "The Changeling."

By Mary Lamb. In one of the later editions of this story certain small changes were made, not, I fancy, by Mary Lamb. For example, on page 349, line 19, the sentence was made to read: "Neither dancing, nor any foolish lectures, could do much for Miss Lesley, she remained for some time wanting in gracefulness of carriage; but all that is usually attributed to dancing music finally effected." The italics indicate the additions of the nice editorial hand.

Page 350. IV.—Elinor Forester. "The Father's Wedding Day."

By Mary Lamb. It is this story which Landor so much admired (see above). The pretty song, "Balow, my babe," was probably "Ann Bothwell's Lament," beginning "Balow, my boy."

Page 354. V.—Margaret Green. "The Young Mahometan."

By Mary Lamb, and perhaps her most perfect work. Here we have a description of Blakesware, the home of the Plumers, which for many years was uninhabited by the family, and left from 1778 to 1792 in the sole charge of Mrs. Field, Charles and Mary's maternal grandmother. Charles, since he was born in 1775, would on his visits have known no power superior to his grandmother; but Mary, who was born in 1764, would have occasionally encountered Mrs. Plumer, just as Margaret Green met Mrs. Beresford. Probably Mrs. Plumer and Mrs. Beresford were very like. Probably also Mrs. Field maintained silence with her grandchild, for we know that neither she nor her daughter rightly understood Mary Lamb. Mrs. Field used to speak of her "poor moythered brains." Mary's description of the old house should be compared with Charles's in the Elia essays "Blakesmoor in H——shire" and "Dream-Children." In one point they are at variance; for Mary says that the twelve Caesars "hung" round the hall, and her brother that they were life-size busts. I have the authority of a gentleman who remembers them at Gilston, whither they were removed, for saying that Charles Lamb's memory was the more accurate. The picture of the little girl with a lamb seems to have made an equal impression on both their minds; and both mention the shuttlecocks on the table.

Page 360. VI.—Emily Barton. "Visit to the Cousins."

By Mary Lamb. Possibly autobiographical in the matter of the first play. Charles Lamb's first play was the opera "Artaxerxes;" Mary's may quite well have been Congreve's "Mourning Bride." The book-shop at the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard would be Harris's (late Newbery's); that in Skinner Street (No. 41) was, of course, Godwin's, where Mrs. Leicester's School was published and sold. This pleasant art of advertising one's wares in one's own children's books was brought to perfection by Newbery, and by Harris, his successor, whose tiny histories are full of reminders of the merits of the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard. By making Mr. Barton hesitate between the two shops and then go to Mrs. Godwin's, Lamb (for here it was probably he and not his sister) carried the joke a step farther than Newbery.

The following account of the figures on old St. Dunstan's Church (the children of to-day are taken to Cheapside to see Bennett's clock) is given in Hughson's London (1805):—

On the outside of the church, within a niche and pediment at the south-west end, over the clock, are two figures of savages or wild men, carved in wood, and painted natural colour, as big as the life, standing erect, with each a knotty club in his hand, with which they alternately strike the quarters, not only their arms, but even their heads, moving at every blow.

Moxon tells us that when the old church was pulled down and the figures were removed, Lamb shed tears. The figures I am told still exist in the garden of the villa in Regent's Park—"St. Dunstan's"—that once belonged to the Marquis of Hertford and is now the Earl of Londesborough's London House.

Miss Pearson kept a toy-shop at No. 7 Fleet Street. The Lambs knew her through Charles's old schoolmistress, Mrs. Reynolds.

Page 368. VII.—Maria Howe. "The Witch Aunt."

By Charles Lamb. This story is peculiarly interesting to students of Lamb's life, for it describes, probably with absolute fidelity, his Aunt Hetty, and elaborates the passage concerning Stackhouse's New History of the Bible, which is to be found in the Elia essay "Witches and other Night Fears." Aunt Hetty is described elsewhere by Lamb in his Elia essays, "Christ's Hospital" and "My Relations;" and in the poem "Written on the Day of my Aunt's Funeral." In Mary Lamb's letter to Sarah Stoddart on September 21, 1803, is a short passage corroborative of Lamb's account of the relations subsisting between his aunt and his parents:—

My father had a sister lived with us—of course, lived with my Mother, her sister-in-law; they were, in their different ways, the best creatures in the world—but they set out wrong at first. They made each other miserable for full twenty years of their lives—my Mother was a perfect gentlewoman, my Aunty as unlike a gentlewoman as you can possibly imagine a good old woman to be; so that my dear Mother (who, though you do not know it, is always in my poor head and heart) used to distress and weary her with incessant and unceasing attention and politeness, to gain her affection. The old woman could not return this in kind, and did not know what to make of it—thought it all deceit, and used to hate my Mother with a bitter hatred; which, of course, was soon returned with interest.

Lamb told Coleridge, in a letter upon his aunt's death, "she was to me the 'cherisher of infancy.'"

In the Elia essay on "Witches" no mention is made of Glanvil; but there is a passage in the unpublished version of John Woodvil which mentions both it and Stackhouse:—

I can remember when a child the maids Would place me on their lap, as they undrest me, As silly women use, and tell me stories Of Witches—Make me read "Glanvil on Witchcraft," And in conclusion show me in the Bible, The old Family-Bible, with the pictures in it, The 'graving of the Witch raising up Samuel, Which so possest my fancy, being a child, That nightly in my dreams an old Hag came And sat upon my pillow.

That was written some eight or nine years earlier than "Maria Howe;" the essay on "Witches" some fifteen years later. Joseph Glanvill (1636-1680) issued his Philosophical Considerations touching Witches and Witchcraft, in 1666.

Page 375. VIII.—Charlotte Wilmot. "The Merchant's Daughter."

By Mary Lamb.

Page 378. IX.—Susan Yates. "First Going to Church."

By Charles Lamb. John Lamb, the father, came from Lincolnshire, but Charles did not know that county at all. The remark, "to see how goodness thrived," may well have been John Lamb's, or possibly his father's; and Lamb's own first impressions of church, probably acquired at the Temple (which he mentions here by comparison), were, it is easy to believe, identical with the imaginary narrator's. Church bells seem always to have had an attraction for him: he has a pretty reference to them in John Woodvil, and a little poem in Blank Verse, 1798, entitled "The Sabbath Bells."