The following notes, undated, but of about 1829, were addressed to Coleridge, under the genial care of Mr. Gilman, at Highgate :

With boundless love it look'd abroad

For one bright moment given;
Shone with a loveliness that aw'd,
And quiver'd into Heaven.

A year, made slow by care and toil,
Has paced its weary round,

Since Death enrich'd with kindred spoil
The snow-clad, frost-ribb'd ground.

Then Lamb, with whose endearing name
Our boy we proudly graced,

Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame
Than mightier bards embraced.

Still 'twas a mournful joy to think
Our darling might supply

For years on earth, a living link,
To name that cannot die.

And though such fancy gleam no more
On earthly sorrow's night,
Truth's nobler torch unveils the shore
Which lends to both its light.

The nursling there that hand may take,
None ever grasp'd in vain ;

And smiles of well-known sweetness wake,
Without their tinge of pain.

Though 'twixt the Child and child-like Bard,
Late seem'd distinction wide,

Each now may trace in Heaven's regard,
How near they were allied.

Within the infant's ample brow

Blythe fancies lay unfurl'd,

Which, all uncrush'd, may open now,

To charm a sinless world.

Though the soft spirit of those eyes
Might ne'er with Lamb's compete-
Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise,
Or melt in tears, as sweet;

That calm and unforgotten look
A kindred love reveals,

With his who never friend forsook,
Or hurt a thing that feels.

DEAR C.,

TO MR. COLERIDGE.

Your sonnet is capital. The paper ingenious,* only that it split into four parts (besides a side splinter) in the carriage. I have transferred it to the common English paper, manufactured of rags, for better preservation. I never knew before how the "Iliad" and "Odyssey" were written. 'Tis strikingly corroborated by observations on Cats. These domestic animals, put 'em on a rug before the fire, wink their eyes up, and listen to the kettle, and then purr, which is their poetry.

On Sunday week we kiss your hands (if they are clean). This next Sunday I have been engaged for some time. With remembrances to your good host and hostess,

TO THE SAME.

Yours, ever,

C. LAMB.

MY DEAR COLERIDGE,

With pain and grief, I must entreat you to excuse us on Thursday. My head, though externally correct, has had severe concussion in my long illness, and the very idea of an engagement hanging over for a day or two, forbids my rest, and I get up miserable. I am not well enough for com

In thought profound, in wildest glee,
In sorrows dark and strange,
The soul of Lamb's bright infancy
Endured no spot or change.

From traits of each our love receives
For comfort, nobler scope;

While light, which child-like genius leaves,
Confirms the infant's hope :

And in that hope with sweetness fraught

Be aching hearts beguiled,

To blend in one delightful thought,

The POET and the CHILD!

* Some gauzy tissue paper on which the sonnet was copied.

pany. I do assure you, no other thing prevents me coming. I expect and his brothers this or to-morrow evening, and it worries me to death that I am not ostensibly ill enough to put 'em off. I will get better, when I shall hope to see your nephew. He will come again. Mary joins in best love to the Gilmans. Do, I earnestly entreat you, excuse me. I assure you, again, that I am not fit to go out yet. Yours, (though shattered)

Tuesday.

C. LAMB.

The next two notelets are addressed to Coleridge's excellent host, on the occasion of borrowing and returning the works of Fuller:

TO MR. GILMAN.

Pray trust me with the "Church History," as well as the "Worthies." A moon shall restore both. Also give me back "Him of Aquinium." In return you have the light of

my countenance.*

Adieu.

P. S. A sister also of mine comes with it. A son of Nimshi drives her. Their driving will have been furious, impassioned. Pray God they have not toppled over the tunnel! I promise you I fear their steed, bred out of the wind without father, semi-Melchisedec-ish, hot, phaetontic. From my country lodgings at Enfield.

C. L.

TO THE SAME.

DEAR GILMAN,

Pray do you, or S. T. C. immediately write to say you have received back the golden works of the dear, fine, silly old angel, which I part from, bleeding, and to say how the winter has used you all.

It is our intention soon, weather permitting, to come over

* A sketch of Lamb, by an amateur artist.

for a day at Highgate; for beds we will trust to the GateHouse, should you be full; tell me if we may come casually, for in this change of climate, there is no naming a day for walking. With best loves to Mrs. Gilman, &c.,

Yours, mopish, but in health,

C. LAMB.

I shall be uneasy till I hear of Fuller's safe arrival.

While Lamb was residing at Enfield, the friendship which, in 1824, he had formed with Mr. Moxon, led to very frequent intercourse, destined, in after years, to be rendered habitual, by the marriage of his friend with the young lady whom he regarded almost as a daughter. In 1828, Mr. Moxon, at the request of Mr. Hurst, of the firm of Hurst, Chance and Co, applied to Lamb to supply an article for the " Keepsake," which he, always disliking the flimsy elegancies of the Annuals-sadly opposed to his own exclusive taste for old, standard, moth-eaten books; thus declined ::

MY DEAR M.,

TO MR. MOXON.

"It is my firm determination to have nothing to do with "Forget-me-Nots"-pray excuse me as civilly as you can to Mr. Hurst. I will take care to refuse any other applications. The things which Pickering has, if to be had again, I have promised absolutely, you know, to poor Hood, from whom I had a melancholy epistle yesterday; besides that Emma has decided objections to her own and her friends' Album verses being published; but if she gets over that, they are decidedly Hood's.

Till we meet, farewell. Loves to Dash.*

C. L.

*The great dog, which was, at one time, the constant companion of his long walks.

The following introduced Mr. Patmore to Mr. Moxon :

DEAR M.,

TO MR. MOXON.

My friend Patmore, author of the "Months," a very pretty publication-of sundry Essays in the "London," "New Monthly," &c., wants to dispose of a volume or two of "Tales." Perhaps they might chance to suit Hurst; but be that as it may, he will call upon you under favor of my recommendation; and as he is returning to France, where he lives, if you can do any thing for him in the Treaty line, to save him dancing over the Channel every week, I am sure you will. I said I'd never trouble you again; but how vain are the resolves of mortal man! P. is a very hearty, friendly, good fellow-and was poor John Scott's second,as I shall be yours when you want me. May you never be

mine !

Yours, truly,

C. L.

Enfield.

The following two letters, addressed to Mr. H. C. Robinson, when afflicted with rheumatism, are in Lamb's wildest strain of mirth. In the first, he pretends to endure all the pain he believes his friend to be suffering, and attributes it to his own incautious habits; in the second he attributes the suffering to his friend in a strain of exaggeration, probably intended to make the reality more tolerable by compari

son:

TO MR. H. C. ROBINSON.

DEAR ROBINSON,

We are afraid you will slip from us from England without again seeing us. It would be charity to come and see one. I have these three days been laid up with strong rheumatic pains, in loins, back, shoulders. I shriek sometimes from the violence of them. I get scarce any sleep, and the consequence is, I am restless, and want to change